


step into my office, baby

by foxbones



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F, Office AU, SEX CONTRACTS, a veritable festival of trope, corporate shenanigans, email chains filled with innuendo, emma also has a thing for women in positions of power, emma has authority issues, fuck me pumps and stacks of files and bending over desks, particularly putting women in positions of power into compromised positions, rom com AU, tropey mctropersons every which way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-07-21 23:57:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 41,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7410304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxbones/pseuds/foxbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what you get for doing the nice thing, Emma thinks. You do that whole Pay It Forward bullshit - you buy a lady some coffee and you pretend like it isn’t totally motivated by how she looks in a pencil skirt - and she goes and insults your business card and turns out to be your company’s new Executive Director. Real fucking cute.</p><p>From now on, she is drinking tea. </p><p>or, the one where they're in an office.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. FWD: Add to Calendar: Executive Director Announcement, 5 PM EST

**Author's Note:**

> y'all know i love my romcom tropefest tributes. this particular work is dedicated to workplace romantic comedies of the more sardonic kind - while a million tiny things was possessed of much fluff and love and rounded edges, step into my office has a lot more bite and vinegar.
> 
> this is saved in my word files as "an excuse to write sex in office settings" and honestly, that ain't wrong.

 

 

 

 

Emma Swan’s first mistake of the day is getting coffee. 

For one thing, she is running late. Sixteen minutes late, which she isn’t counting because she no longer has a watch - very long story involving a blender, a vindictive ex, and the final episode of Golden Girls - but Mary Margaret is counting for her, by sending text messages every sixty seconds of increasing numerals. Being on time for things is not Emma’s strong point, but it’s not like she’s been fired yet, right?

 

 

 

 

For another thing, this coffeeshop happens to be the closest one to the office, which is why desperation drove her to this line, but it’s also the coffeeshop that happens to employ the surliest baristas. So in the case of a power-heeled pencil-skirted handbag-swinging lady pointing out to said surliest baristas that this is not a flat white but in fact a latte, which she specifically did _not_ order, the wait will take that much longer.

Surly Barista, who is mercilessly chewing on her gum during this episode, points at the sign on the counter. The sign reads NO REFUNDS. She of the pencil skirt and power heels seems to find this unacceptable, or at least the posturing of her backside reads that way. Emma decides that focusing so intently on the shape of this backside is probably rude, but damn, for all her high maintenance java needs, this woman is bangin’.

“This is _unacceptable_ ,” Heels and Skirt says, and then she sweeps her gaze around the shop in search of, one imagines, a manager. Emma briefly forgets what she came here to order when she sees her face, specifically those eyes and that red lipstick.

“Not my problem,” says Surly Barista. She turns to Emma, who is next in line, snapping her gum expectantly. “What can I get you?”

“Uh, I’ll just have--”

“ _Excuse me_ ,” Heels, Skirt, Red Lips & Co. interrupts, hands spread indignantly. “I’m not asking for a refund, I’m asking for my correct order.”

Surly Barista blinks. This job is obviously not worth whatever fraction of acting school it currently funds. “Refunds, returns, it’s all the same.”

“Unbelievable.” The woman has now set the incorrect latte back on the counter. “Is this what passes for customer service in this establishment?”

The ever-lengthening line has their own opinions about this situation, as assessed from their frequent grumbling and shuffling. “Hey lady,” someone shouts from the back. “There’s a goddamned Starbucks across the street.”

Emma is not entirely sure she didn’t just see lasers fly out of this woman’s eyeballs and strike that opinion-sharer in his testicles.

Surly Barista turns back to Emma. “Next,” she announces flatly, ignoring Heels, Skirt, Red Lips, and Increasing Frustration.

“Can I get a double shot and, uh...” Emma glances over at the irate woman, decides to _try_ because she’s an idiot but she’s a nice idiot. And maybe a flirtatious idiot. “A flat white, right?”

This turns out to be her second mistake of the day.

The woman doesn’t seem to know how to react to this gesture. She pushes hair behind her ear, as if attempting composure. “You don’t need to--”

“No, it’s fine.” Emma nods at Surly Barista. “Get it right this time.”

Surly Barista rolls her eyes. “Whatever,” she says, ringing her up. “You all lined up here despite the one star rating on Yelp.” She hands Emma her change. “Your funeral.”

“That was not necessary,” hisses Ms. Flat White. She is now angrily going through her wallet, pulling out cash. Emma shakes her head. 

“Neither is paying me.”

Ms. Flat White looks up from her bag, narrowing her eyes. “Sorry?”

“I’ll chalk it up as an I Owe You.” Emma pulls out her business card in a smooth gesture she has only practiced one or thirty times. She winks. “You just give me a call when you feel like returning the favor.”

The woman continues to stare suspiciously at Emma as if she were in fact a bag of snakes in a darkened closet. When she reads the business card, her eyes widen for a moment, she lets out a laugh that is not entirely...friendly? _nice?_ , and then this happens:

“You’re hitting on me,” she says, a fact, not a question, and raises one perfect eyebrow. She looks simultaneously unimpressed and perturbed by the situation.

“I mean...uh...” This was really not what Emma was expecting. She reacts like a shorted android. “Yes? I’m...sorry? I think.”

The woman holds up Emma’s business card as if handling a biohazard. “Is this _really_ yours?”

“Well, yeah.” Emma isn’t sure whether to laugh or be extremely defensive. “Are you implying that I stole some rando’s business credentials and am using it to pick up women? That’s...that’s not even logical.”

“Absolutely _unbelievable_ ,” the woman mutters, and then leaves. She leaves! The lady hath fucking departed.

Extremely Attractive But Definitely A Bitch leaves the coffeeshop. She spins on her power heel and she power heels on out of there, pencil-skirt-hugging hips switching like perfectly rounded knives through the door. In any other less frigid social situation, Emma would be reminded of the popular statement, “I hate to see her go, but I love to watch her leave.”

Instead, Emma is standing there with her mouth agape, Surly Barista #2 depositing two takeout coffee cups into her open hands. She can’t remember what to a) do with the coffee or b) why she was handed them in the first place. Surly Barista #2 looks at Surly Barista #1 and they shake their heads in pity.

Meanwhile, Emma’s phone chimes to remind her that she is now 26 minutes late. Not that she is counting.

 

 

 

 

When Emma finally drops herself into her cubicle at 10:01 AM, Ruby is already leaning over the wall.

“The fuck were you? The fuck is that?”

The answer to the first question is attempting to buy coffee for a She-Demon. The answer to the second question is said She-Demon’s said coffee. But Emma is still not quite at the point of being able to articulate herself, so she shakes her head, grunts, and sets both coffees on her desk.

“Well, Gold wants to see you. I told him you were late because you were performing charitable acts at a children’s hospital.”

“Please tell me you’re kidding.”

Ruby rolls her eyes, sipping a coffee while still dangling over the cubicle divide. “Wow, sorry for attempting to promote your golden reputation, Swan. Next time I’ll just tell him you’re choking puppies in a dumpster.”

“There are days when choking puppies in a dumpster would be less miserable than this job.”

Ruby holds up her free hand for a high-five. “Amen, sister.”

 

 

 

 

Mr. Gold’s corner office is only a few paces from Emma’s desk, but he has a tendency to keep his blinds closed. The rest of the office believes this is because he is actually a reptilian creature who loathes the artificial light. In reality, it’s probably because he likes his privacy and is not-so-secretly dating last year’s intern, the French girl who kept her own tea set in her desk. Emma pretends she and her colleagues don’t know this as she sits across from him, smiling the way she imagines a very responsible and committed employee would smile.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Gold?”

“Actually, Miss Swan, it’s what I can do for you.” Mr. Gold leans forward, adjusting his tie with an unplaceable grin. “You’re a team leader, Emma. You bring in the numbers and your colleagues love you. You’re really going places.”

This is not entirely true. In fact, it seems like a pretty blatant fabrication of the truth, which is that Emma deeply resents her job selling various forms of cutting edge technology to corporate accounts, and only seems capable of leading her team when it’s their Friday night beer pong tournaments at Mickey’s. When someone says she’s going places, the place they typically mean is Hell. But maybe that’s just the angry Evangelicals who skulk outside the gay club, who knows.

“Um, thanks, Mr. Gold.” Emma keeps on smiling. “I’m just doing what I do and, uh, all that.”

“Just keep up that good work, Swan.” He waggles his eyebrow, a gesture she is not entirely sure isn’t weird. “Listen, I’m going to be straight with you: the board wants an exemplary employee from each department to send to our upcoming corporate retreat. I knew as soon as the memo who I was going to pick. Someone _truly_ worthy of the opportunity.”

Emma coughs. “Me?”

“Actually, Gaston from Team 4, but he’s going to Florida that weekend.”

“So I was second choice?”

“Well, Lefou was second choice. Turns out he and my five other top picks are _also_ going to Florida, talk about coincidence. Apparently they do this every year, some kind of ‘Boy’s Trip’. One of those things where they drink a lot and oil each other’s muscles or something, not sure. But hey, guess who is the eighth best employee in my department?” Mr. Gold reaches across to shake her hand. “Please tell me you’re not going to Florida next month.”

“Not as far as I know.”

“ _Fantastic_ , that’s a relief. Seriously, can you imagine if I had to send Wiggens? That guy got stuck in the fax machine twice this month. How does anyone do that twice?”

“It’s still better than when Gaston put his dick in the--”

“I’ll forward you all the details this afternoon. You’re the best, Miss Swan.”

“Eighth best.”

Mr. Gold smiled. “Don’t sell yourself short, Swan.”

“I mean, technically _you_ were the one who --”

“And don’t forget that meeting this afternoon. I think you’ll find the new executive director very impressive.” Mr. Gold winks. “We take positive female role models in positions of power _very_ seriously.”

 

 

 

 

So the fourth mistake she makes that day involves a meeting. _The_ meeting, as it turns out.

She probably should have been paying attention to the emails. Or when Mary Margaret met her at the second floor cooler to tell her about her extremely vanilla date with the extremely vanilla David - luckily, the extremely vanilla Mary Margaret’s type is also extremely vanilla - and said she’d see her at the meeting.

In her mind, she was processing the word meeting. She just wasn’t _processing_ the word meeting. 

And when she says she’s going out to get coffee, and Ruby says to make sure she gets back in time for the meeting, for whatever reason she does not register the meeting. Again. Or ever.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Emma shows up late with Starbucks.

She opens the door to Conference Room 3, the largest conference room, and assumes she will be able to sneak down into the back unnoticed. These are typically old-white-dude-in-a-suit announcements anyway, so it’s not a huge deal.

The second she steps into the back of the conference room, there is an audible silence. The woman at the front of the room is wearing a very familiar pencil skirt. Her bright red lips that were previously smiling immediately reform into a frown of disapproval. And while everyone is turned to look at her, obnoxious coffee in hand, bag of scone in the other, Emma recognizes that this new executive director is in fact the woman from the morning. She also takes this opportunity to audibly groan and forget to not state her feelings out loud:

“Oh, _fuck_.”

The woman glances down at a clipboard, and then pulls a familiar business card from her pocket. 

“Miss Swan, is it? Thank you for joining us. While I appreciate having open dialogues with my employees, I’ve already advised everyone to hold their comments and questions until we finish. I’m not sure if what you just said was a comment or question, but please restrain yourself from further cursing until I’m done.”

At the other side of the room, Ruby is making frantic slashing and stabbing gestures at her throat with her pen. Gold’s eyes are the size of saucers. Emma decides now is as good a time as ever to leap from the conference room window and disappear forever into the abyss of humiliation and raw human shame. 

So, Ms. Flat White is actually Ms. Regina Mills, the new Executive Director of BrookeTech. Right. Great, really great. 

This is what you get for doing the nice thing, Emma thinks. You do that whole Pay It Forward bullshit - you buy a lady some coffee and you pretend like it isn’t totally motivated by how she looks in a pencil skirt - and she goes and insults your business card and turns out to be your company’s new Executive Director. Real fucking cute.

From now on, she is drinking tea.

 

 

 

 


	2. RE: RE: RE: RE: Potassium Deficiency

 

 

 

 

“What the _five kinds of fuck_ was that about?”

Emma really doesn’t have time to relate this long story, because she is power-walking to the elevators, attempting to leave Ruby and her fellow employees in the dust. Her current plan for the rest of the afternoon is to hide in a bathroom stall and hope a mysterious virus wipes out the office, giving everyone short-term amnesia that erases the memory of this horrible, horrible event.

Of course, her plan is foiled by the fact that Ruby is impressively fast on her feet for someone wielding a laptop in kitten heels.

Emma frantically presses the elevator button, jumping into the car when the doors open. “You know, it’s a really long story--”

Ruby slips into the elevator beside her, immediately closing the doors behind them. She proceeds to press every button from Floor 2 to Floor 9. “Oh, you’ve got time.”

 

 

 

 

“And then I was like, well, you can pay me back with a favor of your own some time.”

“Please tell me you didn’t give her your business card.”

“Okay, _first of all_ \--”

“Emma, guess what isn’t cool? Pulling out a business card and using it as a flirtation technique.”

“Yes, it is! I was really suave about it. Handing out a business card tells a girl I’ve got a job, and my job is stable enough that someone would give me business cards. Girls love job stability, that shit is hot. Panties are heartily discarded when I hand over a business card.”

“Right, and then she reads it and finds out you’re only a mid-level employee at a soulless tech company.”

“Do you think that’s why she turned me down? Because of my position?”

“I think she turned you down because you are shit at flirting and probably seemed deranged.”

“I’m not shit at flirting.”

“Wendy in accounting definitely thinks so.”

“Well, Wendy in accounting has like twelve cats that she did not mention until after our second date. What does that say about a person?”

“Probably about the same as someone handing out business cards to get laid.”

“Excuse me for trying to streamline the process of exchanging digits. I didn’t realize I was committing a social crime far worse than hiding the fact you hoard animals from your date.”

“Her Skype name is meowmeowmeowmeow. How the hell was this a surprise to you?”

“I just thought when she was talking about ‘all her boys’, she meant all the boyfriends she was currently juggling.”

“You were on a date with her. A _gay_ date.”

“I don’t assume shit about people’s sexuality, dude. Also straight girls are my kryptonite, you know that. She keeps mentioning all these boys she’s taking care of and I was like oh shit, we got a premium level straight over here. I was beyond help at that point.”

“Beyond help? Honey, you’re beyond _hope_ at this point.”

“So should I just hand in my notice tomorrow? Is there any way I can recover from this? I mean, I definitely have to spend the rest of my time here actively avoiding her, and definitely not going to the top floor, and _definitely_ skipping all meetings, just in case she’s there, and--”

“I’m not gonna say you’re not fucked. You are definitely fucked.”

“Ugh, I know. I really know.”

“But, hey. Hang on. You could probably get away with never seeing her again. I mean, the executive people are never in the office anyway, and even when they are, it’s not like we’re on the same floor. What are the chances you are going to run into this lady before everyone’s forgotten what happened?”

 

 

 

 

Really fucking good, it turns out.

Emma somehow gets through the rest of the day, not without a number of Skype messages from Ruby that are just alternating gifs of cats and lesbian porn, and a particularly concerned email from Mary Margaret up in HR, telling her that if she needs a fake doctor’s note to get out of work for the week, MM will have her back.

Great. It’s officially been a crisis.

So when Emma finally bolts out of the office at 5:29 PM, not showing her ID pass to security so much as slamming it dramatically against the glass window of their booth, she thinks the crisis is over. Shirt untucked, leather jacket on, she slides onto an empty seat on the subway train and starts concentrating on the bottle of tequila awaiting her at home. _Oh, beautiful tequila, sweet señorita of my heart--_

And that’s when she glances down the train only to see an extremely familiar outline at the front of the car.

“Shit, _fuck_. Fuckity fuck.”

As this is the subway, no one seems particularly phased by Emma cursing out loud for the umpteenth time that day, Regina Mills included. She hasn’t noticed Emma, and seems consumed in her iPad, luckily for our heroine and her sputtering misery. Emma scrambles to pull the collar of her leather jacket higher, pushing her hair across her face in a move that probably makes her look insane. She will take insane over incurring the wrath of fate.

_Just stay cool, Emma. She’ll get off the train in a bit anyway. It’s not like she’s staying on until your stop._

 

 

 

 

Regina stays on until Emma’s stop. In fact, to make matters considerably worse, she stands up as soon as Emma stands up. Emma makes a desperate maneuver towards the other door, managing to shove an elderly man and pregnant woman out of the way in the process. Officially the newly christened enemy of this subway car, she just about sprints towards the escalators.

Because at the very least, it’s not like Regina’s heading to the same exit, right?

 

 

 

 

“Oh, fuck me _sideways_.”

This out of Emma’s mouth when she gets to the intersection and sees Regina also approaching the intersection. Once again, she attempts to use a combination of her hair, her jacket, and ducking behind a family of tourists to hide from the sight of her executive director.

If this didn’t work, she wouldn’t know, because as soon as the light turns green, she’s power walking down that crosswalk like a champ. She rounds the corner and keeps up the pace for five blocks, until she slows in front of a church and takes a breather. After what she considers a thorough check around her, it seems she’s officially lost Regina.

“This is normal,” she says to the pigeon staring her down from the church steps. “Literally running away from a woman who laughed at your advances is totally normal.”

The pigeon seems unimpressed. This reminds her of Regina, which causes her to get agitated again.

“You’re not cute,” she says, accusatory finger pointing at the beady-eyed bastard.

“Coo,” says the pigeon, because it’s a pigeon.

 

 

 

 

She stops into the market a few blocks from her house. She has decided that it will take a lot more carbs and alcohol to deal with the day. Like, maybe three frozen pizzas and another bottle of wine level of dealing with the deal. 

“Jesus _shit_.”

The nearest market employee turns from his inventory of the shelf, blinking. “Uh, can I help you?”

“Hide me,” Emma hisses and swivels behind him, pressing herself against the wall. “Can you do me a favor and confirm that I am not hallucinating?”

The kid sighs, looking between his scanner and Emma, seeming to decide that this insane chick is more interesting than counting cereal boxes. “I guess.”

“On the other end of the aisle, do you see a lady in a pencil skirt? Dark hair, good posture, impractical shoes?”

The employee looks down the aisle, blinks slowly, and then turns back to Emma, still crouched behind him. “Um, yes?”

“ _Shit._ ”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“It’s a horrible thing.”

“It’s probably good you’re not hallucinating, though.”

“I would rather be seeing a mirage at this point. Where is your liquor aisle?”

“Uh,” the kid seems rightfully hesitant to give her this information, but he gestures in the opposite direction of Regina, who is currently browsing oatmeal, seemingly unaware of Emma, who has now tucked herself behind a display. “Aisle five.” 

“You’re a champ,” she says, holding up her hand for a high fave. He reluctantly high fives back.

Emma now has the difficult task of exiting this very small grocery store without being seen by her executive director. After a fruitful detour in the liquor aisle, she goes into stealth mode, managing to keep just out of Regina’s line of sight on the way to the check out line. Of course, somewhere in between produce and dairy, the brunette appears in front of the bananas, looks up at Emma, and does a double take.

Gosh darn heck.

“Are you _following_ me?”

Emma sputters, nearly dropping her basket. “ _What?_ I live here.”

Regina raises an eyebrow. How the fuck can one look from this woman completely disarm her? “You live here, in this grocery store?”

“Yes!” Fuck, wait. “No, I mean, I live three blocks from here, so I live in this neighborhood. Which is why I would be at this grocery store, just like I am on the regular, and not following you, or whatever you just accused me of doing.”

“I accused you of following me.”

“Well, your accusation is bullshit, because I live here.”

“Three blocks from here.”

“Right, whatever. Look, I am very busy.” Emma pretends to be extremely absorbed in these bananas, throwing three bunches into her basket. She will figure out what the fuck to do with three bunches of bananas at a later time.

“So it’s complete coincidence that we rode the same train, got off at the same stop, and walked to the same neighborhood market after our earlier encounter today?”

“Weirdly, yes?”

“And you acting absolutely ridiculous, flipping your hair around and hiding behind stock boys, that’s a coincidence as well?”

“I was _not_ acting ridiculous.”

Regina’s eyebrow continues to hover in its sky high position. She could not possibly look more doubtful of the situation. “Miss Swan, you almost knocked over a hot dog stand attempting to hide from me."

“That’s just...I have a condition.” Emma adds yet another bunch of bananas to her basket. “I have a potassium deficiency. I need more, um, potassium.”

Regina is now looking at Emma’s basket, which, on top of the abundance of bananas, also contains a bottle of Jose Cuervo, a bottle of white wine, and store brand white rum. “Well,” she says, her voice practically venomous. “I wish you the best of luck with that.”

“And I...uh, to you...wish you that as well.”

“You wish me the best of luck with a potassium deficiency?”

Emma goes right ahead and adds a fifth bunch of bananas. “Nope,” she says, enthusiastically shaking her head. “That would be ridiculous.”

“Very ridiculous.” Regina gives Emma one last sweeping look, head to toe, and if there’s something more than utter judgment, it’s hard to say, but fuck it, her optimistic ass will see it there anyway. “Well, in case this isn’t evident, Miss Swan, I don’t take well to being followed. Just as a rule.”

“How do I know you weren’t following me?”

“That is absolutely preposterous.” It’s Regina’s turn to look slightly flustered. She pulls protectively on her shopping basket, which Emma takes a moment to observe contains almost entirely organic fruit and vegetables, and a bottle of rioja. 

“I’ve lived here for three years and have never seen you in this neighborhood before tonight.”

Regina snorts. “How would you know that?”

“Have you seen yourself? I would definitely remember you,” Emma clips, and nearly claps a hand over her mouth after saying that. _Stop thinking with your clit, dumbass!_ Regina’s cheeks go red, and then she looks considerably more angry.

“Maybe your memory is not as reliable as you think, Miss Swan. Just a few minutes ago, you told me you lived in this grocery store.”

“A grocery store I have never seen you in before now, when you accused me of following you.”

“Maybe I just shop when you’re not here.”

“Maybe one way to cover when you’re caught following someone is to immediately accuse them of following you.”

Regina’s eyes narrow. “Are you accusing a senior member of management of stalking you, Miss Swan?”

Emma is not entirely sure what to say in response to this, but she decides to add a sixth bunch of bananas to her basket just...because. “I’m sorry, my potassium levels are too low. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

The other woman lets out a sound that is somewhere between a sigh and a huff. It’s cute, despite being equally terrifying. She crosses her arms, eyes narrowed. “You should have that added to your file in Human Resources. It’s not listed under your medical needs at present.”

“I...wait, have you looked at my file?”

“Good to see you, Miss Swan. Have a nice week.” Regina’s cheeks flush red for the second time that evening, and she turns on her heel, disappearing around the other side of the aisle. 

By the time Emma has put back the appropriate amount of bananas and arrived at the line, she notices a basket placed just in front of the check out counter, still full of organic vegetables and a bottle of rioja. _Someone was in a hurry..._

 

 

 

 

To: eswan1@brooketech.com  
From: rmills1@brooketech.com  
Subject: Potassium Deficiency

This article describes the symptoms of a potassium deficiency. They do not seem to match the symptoms you described last night. I believe you should seek a second opinion on your diagnosis.

http://www.webmd.boots.com/a-to-z-guides/low-potassium-hypokalaemia

R.M.

 

 

 

 

To: rmills1@brooketech.com  
From: eswan1@brooketech.com  
Subject: RE: Potassium Deficiency

1\. I don’t trust WebMD. Last time I used it, they told me I had a rare cancer and was going to die. I had a head cold.

2\. If you really think I should see a new doctor about my condition, maybe you guys should raise the health insurance coverage for your employees. 

Anything else in my file that piqued your interest?

Emma

 

 

 

 

To: eswan1@brooketech.com  
From: rmills1@brooketech.com  
Subject: RE: RE: Potassium Deficiency

The Internet has also made me aware of potassium overdose. Based on your choice in groceries last night, I am concerned that the amount of bananas you’re consuming coupled with the amount of alcohol you are assumedly ingesting could compromise your kidney function, and thus compromise your work.

Your health insurance package is competitive, as you would know having taken the job.

I have no idea what you’re implying. It’s inappropriate at best. Please refrain from contacting me on this email with personal requests, as this is a business account.

R.M.

 

 

 

 

To: rmills1@brooketech.com  
From: eswan1@brooketech.com  
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Potassium Deficiency

Has anyone ever played you the song Hot N Cold by Katy Perry or mentioned it in relation to you before? Asking in a professional sense, as this will give me a better idea of how to work under you in the future.

Emma

 

 

 

 

Emma does not receive a response to that one for the rest of the week. But then on Friday, at 4:46 PM, she hears the chime of her inbox.

To: eswan1@brooketech.com  
From: rmills1@brooketech.com  
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: Potassium Deficiency

If you are describing Katy Perry’s 2008 album One of the Boys, then no, that’s not the song from that album that people might use while discussing me.

I don’t encourage any of my employees to think of themselves as working ‘under me’, Miss Swan. On the contrary, thinking of the entire company as a team where everyone has equal investment and say, one could argue that you’re more likely to work over me and on top of me.

R.M.

 

 

 

 

At 4:48 PM, the late afternoon calm of the third floor is briefly interrupted by a member of the sales department shoving her fist in the air and exclaiming “ _Fuck yeah!_ ” while on Spotify. 

If anyone were to actually review the employee use records of her terminal (no one ever does), they would find that this exclamation occurred after the employee had opened Spotify, searched for Katy Perry’s 2008 album ‘One of the Boys’, and played I Kissed A Girl.

 

 

 

 


	3. RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Sales

 

 

 

 

Around noon, a crumpled piece of paper comes flying over the side of the cubicle wall, landing on Emma’s keyboard. Uncrumpling the paper reveals a cryptic message:

_HEY YOU_

Emma sighs, unfazed. “Rubes,” she says. “You know you can just ping me on Skype, right?”

“I’ve got an exclusive for your ears only.” Ruby appears over the top of the wall, grinning ear to ear. “There’s free food in one of the conference rooms.”

Emma perks up at her desk. The words ‘free’ and ‘food’ uttered anywhere in this office are a dangerous declaration, one almost guaranteed to start a stampede. “Free food as in it was offered to everyone, or free food as in there was a meeting in there a few minutes ago and we’d be pilfering the leftovers?”

Ruby grins sheepishly, shrugging. “It’s more like there’s _going_ to be a meeting, and I just happen to have an in with the secretary who puts out all the spreads.”

“You’re suggesting we steal?”

“Psh, they can afford it. Our catering budget is bananas.”

“What about bananas?”

“Not literal bananas.” Ruby raises an eyebrow. “It’s a turn of phrase, sheesh.”

“Sorry,” Emma says, pretending like her brain wasn’t just flooded with traumatic recent memories. “How do you know this information is viable?”

“Let’s just say I played the long con for this one.”

 

 

 

 

And if this were any other story, we’d probably take this moment to cut away to a series of scenes in which Ruby spots the fourth floor secretary crying in the ladies’ bathroom, only to offer her a shoulder and a tissue in the parking garage, followed shortly by further shoulders and tissues at a bar, and then giving her a drunken pep talk on a rooftop at 3 in the morning. Later, they bond through fun but slightly criminal activities like stealing shopping carts and picking up guys only to dump them after they buy them food, and Ruby telling the secretary that she can trust her with anything. Cue the next day, when this secretary tells Ruby that if she goes upstairs within an eight minute window, she can snag fresh fruit and cookies from conference room nine.

 

 

 

 

“Holy mackerel, there’s _cookies_ ,” Emma nearly leaps across the conference table to fill her pockets with two giant chocolate chip beauties. “We never get _cookies_ , we just get those soggy sandwich components and pitchers of room temperature water. These bastards get cookies!”

Ruby makes a frantic gesture with her arms. “Keep it down,” she hisses, using a napkin as a pouch for her dessert items. “This must be some executive shit, compadre. This is elite-level catering.”

“How are we going to hide this from the rest of the team?”

“How deep are your pockets?”

“Maybe we can stuff some in our bras.”

“Okay, don’t clean them out. Leave a few for the important people who are actually supposed to be here.” 

“Fuck them, they can have the fruit.”

Ruby whistles in agreement. “So, not to change the subject from the food we are stealing--”

“ _Borrowing._ ”

“Are you going to give these cookies back? Wouldn’t that entail something really disgusting?”

Emma sighs. “Fine, stealing.”

“Like I said, not to change the subject from stealing, but I have this friend. Before you protest, she’s really cute and--”

“Seriously?” Emma is already groaning before she knows it. She adds another cookie to the napkin in her hand and decides that seven cookies is probably enough. “I don’t know, Rubes. The last one you set me up with was kind of a disaster.”

 

 

 

 

And if this were any other story, we’d probably take this moment to cut to a flashback in which Emma is stabbing a piece of fish with chopsticks while a redhead looks on in horror. Emma is bad at chopsticks. The redhead, whose name is Ariel but that won’t matter because Emma sure as hell is not saving her number, says she is allergic to seafood. Why she suggested they go to a sushi place is beyond Emma. Ariel talks a lot about her ex, and the slaughtering of dolphins. Ariel feels really strongly about the slaughtering of dolphins.

“Dolphins are far more emotionally intelligent than humans,” Ariel says. “It’s entirely possible they are communicating with each other using telepathy.”

“I mean, dolphins are cute and all,” Emma says, in between bites of not-dolphin-but-basically. “But sometimes they seem kind of smug. Not like that justifies killing them or anything, just that there is a certain smugness about them. Maybe if they toned down the smugness, we wouldn’t have to save them, you know?”

Ariel leaves her seaweed salad untouched and walks out on the date.

Emma texts Ruby and immediately demands to know where she met this girl. Ruby admits it was at a Save the Dolphins rally, where she was trying to pick up girls.

 

 

 

 

“How do you even know I’m single?” Emma asks, this on the way out of the conference room. Their attempts at stealthiness are now out the window, as they walk down the hall with two fistfuls of stolen catered goods.

“You dress like you’re single. And you spend most of the work day checking your OkCupid account, which is sad unto itself.”

Emma snorts. “How does one dress like they’re single?”

Ruby gives her a skeptical one-over. “Have you worn a single color this month?”

“Black is a color.”

“Black is desperate. Black simultaneously signals sexual strife and having given up completely. It hides wine stains.”

Emma pretends like she didn’t spill a burgundy all over this top a week ago. “I didn’t realize the whole monochrome thing I had going was in fact signaling the world to the lonesome state of my sex life. Hello world, look at me, wearing black. Come rescue my vagina before it crumbles into the sea, dry and wasted.”

“Sorry?” This not from Ruby, but from the executive director who has just rounded the corner and just about bang into Emma, still holding a cookie in each hand. 

If she could smack herself in the forehead, she would, but that would cost her a cookie and look ironic at the most. 

“Uh, hello Ms. Mills,” Emma quickly hides the cookies behind her back as if they weren’t just completely visible for a good twenty seconds. Regina raises an eyebrow, one of those amused little half-smiles in play now that she’s had time to take in the whole situation. “Just, uh...talking about sales.”

“Very sales,” Ruby chimes in, not helping. “We have much sales this month.” Ruby is also attempting to hide her cookie theft, but as she stuffed two in her bra and the rest in twin piles that she could barely hold when she _wasn’t_ attempting to conceal them from her superiors, this is failing.

“Fantastic,” Regina says, clearly trying not to laugh. She glances into the unlit conference room behind them, where, were she to step inside, she would find a ravaged plate of cookie crumbs and some assorted fruits. “You wouldn’t happen to know if there are any desserts left, would you?”

“Why would we know that?” Ruby answers too quickly.

“Sorry, were you pilfering another conference room? My bad. I thought I might be able to steal a pastry or two myself.” Regina’s eyes fall on Emma, sparkling over that smug little grin. _Shit, she is simultaneously cruelly gloating and...flirting? Is this flirting?_ “Did they have any bananas, Miss Swan? You know, I was only just reading this morning that dark leafy greens are high in potassium.”

“Didn’t see any dark leafy greens.” Emma continues to keep her hands firmly behind her back. _Fuck, she is flirting. Code red, this is a flirtation situation._ “We should really head downstairs. Sales meeting.”

“Right,” Ruby says, nodding furiously. “Have to discuss sales. Big things happening in sales. Lots of sales.”

“Of course,” Regina says, and Emma does not stick around long enough to see if she ends up ducking into the conference room or not. That might mean hitting on her. That might be...a bad idea.

 

 

 

 

Ruby pings her as soon as they get back to their desks.

_YO_   
_REGINA MILLS IS COOL AS HECK_   
_REGINA MILLS IS STEALIN FOOD AND SHIT, SHE IS DOWN AS BALLS_   
_IF SHE WASN’T OUR BOSS AND YOU HAD NOT TOTALLY SCREWED THE POOCH WITH THE COFFEE THING, I’D TELL YOU TO PURSUE THAT SHIT LIKE A PROFESSIONAL PURSUER_

Emma gives her a shaky thumbs up over the cubicle wall. This is a subject she just really does not need to stumble into right now. Like, super dee duper does not need.

 

 

 

 

To: eswan1@brooketech.com  
From: rmills1@brooketech.com  
Subject: Sales 

I’m concerned after hearing about your situation involving the “crumbling into the sea” (and “dry and wasted”). If this is the state of the sales team, we really need to talk.

Are you free this afternoon? I have time between 3 and 3:15. My office is on the sixth floor.

R.M.

 

 

 

 

To: rmills1@brooketech.com  
From: eswan1@brooketech.com  
Subject: RE: Sales

That is not nearly enough time to go into the situation on the sales time. Sorry.

Emma

 

 

 

 

To: eswan1@brooketech.com  
From: rmills1@brooketech.com  
Subject: RE: RE: Sales 

I believe strongly in making myself completely available and open to my employees, so if that time doesn’t work for you, I’m more than willing to work within or around your preferences.

If you’re free after work, I could also discuss this outside of the office. Whatever is most convenient for you.

R.M.

 

 

 

 

_Oh, shit._

Because everything in her body - mostly her groin area - is reacting strongly to this email, Emma launches herself onto the cubicle partition.

“Ruby,” she gasps. “Gimme that girl’s number.”

Ruby looks thrown. “Uh, I thought you were owning your whole parched vag situation.”

Emma holds out an exasperated palm. “Now.”

 

 

 

 

So, full disclosure, the date ain’t going half bad.

Emma is somehow managing to be more charming than she’s been in ages - all her corny jokes are landing, she described her not-interesting job in a way that made it sound interesting, she did not spill any of this fancy wine that she ordered without fucking up any of the pronunciations or wincing at the price! All in all, a gold star showing.

And the girl is cute. Really cute. Merida’s got a cute-ass accent and Emma does have a bit of a thing for accents, plus she has a dog named Bear and Emma has dated women for much less. A mildly affectionate cat? Emma will date a shitty person for access to even the least tolerant pet, she’ll do it, damn it.

So when dinner is over and they’ve had just enough alcohol to need to lean on each other to put on their coats, Emma suggests they head back to hers. After all, she’s only a few blocks away, and Merida’s looking really great in that tartan scarf.

At the grocery on her corner, Emma decides to swing in to pick up another bottle of wine, since she is pretty sure the only alcohol she has at hers is a very sad and ancient bottle of peach schnapps from last spring, and an even more sad bottle of wine, which she has cried into on more than one occasion. So, wanting to spare the nice lady a salty glass of tear-wine, she goes for a tipsy wander in the wine aisle. Merida says she’s going to grab some shortbread, and heads to another section.

She’s reaching for something that has a shiny label - that’s about Emma’s level of wine knowledge, shiny label = wow - when someone makes a tutting noise behind her.

“I wouldn’t if I were you. Overpriced and too much tang.”

Emma takes a deep breath. Surely it must be the effect of digesting a steak and wine that has caused her to hallucinate this particular voice tonight. 

“Or,” Regina continues, appearing to Emma’s right in a peacoat and bright red scarf, basket under her arm. “You could go for something a bit darker and more complex in taste. Might suit the evening better.” 

Emma tries not to grin. Fuck, she is a grinning idiot anyway. “Didn’t realize you were a wine expert in addition to an executive director.”

“The two go hand in hand, actually. One requires bluffing about expensive old grapes, the other requires bluffing to expensive old men.”

“And as I am merely a desk jockey, I’ll take whatever has the yellow sales tag on it.”

Regina smirks. “Because you’re in sales?”

“Actually...no. But now that you’ve pointed it out, that is a very solid pun. I will need to log that away for future use.” Emma sighs, pretending like she’s not aware that she is in a very obvious date night outfit and Regina’s in these really nice heels and her legs are just...doing their thing, their really wonderful thing...and she needs to not be so aware of everything going on over there. But she is. Very aware. Irreversibly aware. “You’re still stalking me, huh?”

Regina gets this look, simultaneously playful and something Emma can’t put her finger on just yet, and she bites down on the side of her mouth, starting to grin. “Yes, Miss Swan. Instead of me living in this neighborhood and needing to get groceries on a Thursday night, you have come to the correct conclusion that I am stalking you. Of course I have nothing better to do with my time, like making dinner for my son.”

“You have a son?”

But Regina skates over this question, pulling another bottle from the shelves. “Red or white, Miss Swan?”

“No preference.”

“Really?” Regina raises an eyebrow, studying a label. “That’s surprising. You strike me as a woman of at least a few telling preferences.”

“I don’t know,” Emma says, and fuck, why does she feel so self-conscious all of a sudden? “I like trying new things. I’ll trust your judgment if you want to make a recommendation.”

“Well, then.” Regina smirks. “Is this for you, or will you be sharing?” At this, her gaze sweeps down Emma’s outfit, and it’s clear what conclusion she’s drawn. “For two, then.”

“Uh, I mean--”

“Oh, so you’re not on a date? You’re not buying this to impress your date so that when you uncork it in your unlit apartment she’ll be able to overlook your uncoordinated furniture and think it’s charming that you spend money on bottles of wine you can’t pronounce instead of Ikea headrests you can’t pronounce.”

Emma is full of very confusing feelings right now. On one hand, she is pretty sure she should be insulted by this little quip, but every part of her is very engaged, very turned on, and very ready to banter right back. On the other hand, and this hand is fighting to remain relevant, she is also on a date right now, and it’s not with her executive director.

“You know what?” Emma puts the bottle back on the shelf with a lot of ceremony and flair. “I think I’ll just get some Fireball and call it a night.”

Regina’s lips turn in amusement. “Very classy, Miss Swan.”

“I could probably be more classy if you increased my salary. Just saying.”

“You can’t buy taste, I’m afraid.” 

“So what do you usually drink, then?” Emma hopes that her eyebrow raises come across as flirtatiously challenging and not just buzzed. She takes a step closer, notes the way Regina’s teeth catch her bottom lip in the moment. 

“You’d have to buy me a drink to find out.”

At this moment, Merida comes up behind Emma, gripping her arms. “You’re taking an awfully long time with that wine, burd.”

“I ran into a venerated wine expert,” Emma says, shooting a look at Regina, who has taken a bemused interest in the girl now hanging onto her arm. “Merida, this is, uh, Regina Mills. I work with her. Or rather, I work under her.”

_Oh fucking hell, did I honestly just say that? Did I make that completely worthless and totally suggestive correction? Oh sweet lord Jesus on high --_

“Pleasure,” Regina says, nodding curtly. “Emma here was being an awful tease about her taste in wine. I told her, we’ll never pick out a bottle for the two of you if we don’t know what she likes.”

“Red,” Merida says, winking at Emma. “You like the reds, don’t you?” 

No guessing that this has everything to do with Merida’s mass of red curls.

“I mean, I don’t know. I’ll try whatever.”

“Well,” Regina gives Merida a thorough investigation in less than a second, but Emma can already tell from her expression that she’s done enough sizing up for her judgment. “I’d recommend an older vintage, to be honest.”

Emma shrugs a little too forcefully. “Age really doesn’t matter. I don’t think I could tell the difference, really.”

“Oh, trust me. The moment you get so much as a drop of it, you’ll notice the difference immediately. It’s much more...heady. Stronger and more complex bouquets.”

Emma pretends like she’s not on the verge of...trembling, of all things. “Yeah, that’s...I’ll take just about anything, really. Not picky.”

“You should be picky, Miss Swan.”

“It’s just wine.”

“Wine can be much more than just wine.”

Merida’s blinking, staring between the two of them. “Are we...is this about wine?”

“Of course,” Regina says, breaking her gaze and smiling at Merida. “Here, try this.” She hands over one of the bottles, nodding. “Green wine. I’ve heard it described as ‘cute’. That seems your taste, Miss Swan. I hope you two have a great evening.”

“Oh,” Emma says, slinging an arm over Merida, narrowing her eyes in Regina’s direction. “We _will_.”

 

 

 

 

An hour and two glasses of green wine later, and Emma reaches across her couch that does not coordinate with her two chairs, grinning. Merida gives her a chaste kiss, and then smiles in a way that Emma can’t quite place. It’s not really pity, but it’s...not too far off.

“I had a really great night,” Merida says, hand on Emma’s cheek. “And you are a really great person.”

“Shit,” Emma says, sitting back. “The really great person talk.”

“No, it’s not that.” Merida smirks, laughing. “Like I said, I had a great night. It’s just that our entire dinner had about one sixteenth the amount of sparks you had talking to your coworker.”

Emma blinks. “Wait, what?”

“I won't lie, I never made you light up the way you did when you two were talking about what was very clearly not wine. I think any girl would want to be looked at the way you were looking at her.”

“That’s... I don’t _like_ her. That’s totally...that’s just totally crazy, that is not at all--”

Merida presses her finger to Emma’s lips, shaking her head with a smile. “It’s okay, Emma. You’re very cute. I think there’s someone you’d rather be sharing dinner with, and that’s fine. I hope that’s a thing you get to do, for your sake and hers. She is clearly bottling it up.”

Emma lets out a giant sigh, falling back onto the couch. “Shit,” is all she can say, and all she can really process at this time.

“Honestly, though?” Merida takes another sip of her glass. “She was right about this green wine. This is right up my alley.”

 

 

 

 

To: rmills1@brooketech.com  
From: eswan1@brooketech.com  
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Sales

Thank you for the recommendation. Green wine was fine. Apparently a one-time thing. 

Would have liked to have more of the green wine, but it turns out that the green wine is totally delusional about my actual taste in wine and seems to think I would prefer some other kind of wine which is just crazy and whatever, I don’t know, who knows what even with the green wine

Emma

 

 

 

 

To: eswan1@brooketech.com  
From: rmills1@brooketech.com  
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: Sales 

Miss Swan, I am not sure why you felt that information was necessary for a business communication. While I appreciate that you wanted to send me a thank you in regards to my wine suggestion, I have nothing to do with the rest of your email regarding green wine. In the future, please restrict our communications to business and/or urgent needs only.

R.M.

 

 

 

 

To: rmills1@brooketech.com  
From: eswan1@brooketech.com  
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Sales

Urgent needs? Really?

Emma

 

 

 

 

To: eswan1@brooketech.com  
From: rmills1@brooketech.com  
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Sales 

I’m sorry, are you looking for clarification?

R.M.

 

 

 

 

To: rmills1@brooketech.com  
From: eswan1@brooketech.com  
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Sales

The sales team is no longer dried out and crumbling into the sea. It’s totally great and awesome and really doesn’t need any more wine recommendations. It can find its own wine, thanks.

That’s all.

Thanks.

I hope you have a wonderful Monday.

Emma

 

 

 

 

Ruby leans over the cubicle at this point, eyebrows raised.

“Dude, if you pound that keyboard any harder, you’re gonna snap it in half.”

Emma realizes she is breathing significantly harder. “Uh, right. Sure.”

“Is this gonna be one of those days where we pour brandy in our coffee?” Ruby produces a flask. “Because I’m on it.”

Emma nods. It is for sure gonna be one of those days, if not weeks, if not how ever long she needs to work under, er, with Regina Mills. Not under, or over, or on top of, or behind, whilst receiving instructions to pull her hair and smack her -- _nope_. Bad brain. Stop that.

 

 

 

 


	4. FWD: Company Policy on Social Media Usage on Corporate Email Accounts

 

 

 

 

“So I said to him, if you so much as come within a foot of my coffee mug again, I will remove your fingers with the industrial paper shredder in the basement. And you know what? Ever since we had that talk, my mug has always been in the cupboard no matter how late I show up to work, and Eric steals someone else’s mug. Which is sad for them, but definitely not my problem.”

Ruby downs said mug, having concluded her sordid tale. Emma and Mary Margaret nod slowly, still a bit shaken from the semi-graphic imagery.

“That’s...really nice for you, Ruby,” Mary Margaret says, still stirring her tea. She has not stopped stirring her tea since Ruby began the story. 

Emma is currently on her third coffee of the morning. “Is Eric the guy who always has a tuna sandwich for lunch?”

“Either that or he is spending his lunch break--”

Mary Margaret spits some of her tea back into the mug. “Oh god, Ruby. Please don’t finish that sentence.”

“Wow, _excuse_ the both of you. You have no idea what I was about to say. It could have been perfectly acceptable office banter.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “I haven’t heard you say something acceptable in three years.”

“Speaking of which, _shit_ \--” Ruby says, ducking behind Emma. Mulan from the legal department is walking past the kitchen, file under her arm. “The entire legal department has been trying to set me up with her for the past month.”

Emma shrugs. “She’s cute, Rubes. Girl’s wearing a tie to work. I don’t even wear ties to work, and I’m gayer than a softball team at a folk festival.”

“No, I get that she’s cute. And it’s not that she’s a girl, I would obviously get down with a girl whenever I want to get down with a girl. It’s more that them trying to set us up makes it forced, and--”

“Right.” Emma grins. “The fact someone thinks it’s a good idea means you can’t possibly go along with it, because you only do bad ideas?”

“No,” Ruby retorts, waggling her spoon in a particularly accusatory way. “Excuse you, Emma. On a scale of the cat lady in accounting to Charlize Theron naked except for a crown, how’s the dating going?”

“Um, it’s not? But that’s cool, having a functional sex life with an attractive viable adult woman is totally overrated, you know?”

“You know what I heard a program about the other day? These apps for dating, all the young people are doing it.” Mary Margaret looks suddenly more chipper than usual, which is already a baseline of high chipperness. “Are you on Tinder? Let’s make you a Tinder profile!”

Ruby offers her a high five. “I underestimated you, M and M. Shoving Emma right into the hellfire that is the dregs of instantaneous dating. I _like_ your evil genius thinking.”

“Nope.” Emma furiously shakes her head. “Absolutely not.”

“Don’t fight it, Emma.” Ruby does her finger guns. “Pew, pew, Cupid’s comin’. And Cupid wants you to meet some weirdos on the Internet.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Around noon, Ruby drops Emma’s phone over the cubicle wall. “You’re welcome,” she says, and awaits Emma’s approval.

“When the heck did you steal my phone?”

“About an hour ago, when Gold asked you to go around and get everyone’s sandwich orders.”

“Ah yes, my daily bitch responsibilities.” Emma opens up her phone, only to see the telltale orange Tinder symbol. “ _Ruby_.”

“It’s signed in with your work email, your password is ‘Desperation’, with a capital D. I made it so you’ll only see girls who like other girls, but honestly, it’s a bit buggy. There’s the odd dude in there, and I’d say about a third of these girls have never so much as trimmed their nails, if you know what I mean.”

“Why did you call me a ‘cubicle slave’?”

“Because you are a slave, currently in a cubicle. Also I picked the photos that best showed your guns off. We need to play to your very few strengths.”

Emma scrolls through her profile, sighing. “The mozzarella sticks thing is accurate, good call there.”

Ruby winks. “I gotchu, boo.”

“This doesn’t mean I’ll ever use it, for the record.”

“Just give it a try, okay?” Ruby clasps her hands together in a pleading gesture. “Three right swipes, that’s all I ask.”

 

 

 

 

Emma very stubbornly does _not_ open Tinder again that week, as she feels strongly that all of her friends’ investment in her singlehood is a) weird and b) ultimately a fruitless task for everyone involved.

It’s just that it’s a Thursday night and she can’t sleep and her phone is just sitting there on the pillow next to her, glowing in a smug way (like a fucking dolphin, really) and fine, _fine_.

“Fine,” she says, to her phone and to her empty apartment and also to fate itself, as she assumes she is about to seriously tempt it.

The first profile belongs to a blonde named Aurora, only two pictures, both of which she has her eyes closed, and her profile says she is “Nap Queen ;) taken but looking for a third who wants a sleeping buddy.”

“That sounds like a complicated but weirdly boring arrangement,” Emma says, swiping left. 

A few girls who either aren’t her type or are so her type that they are actually exes, maybe too many of those, and then something that makes Emma nearly throw her phone across the bed.

“No fucking way,” she whispers, and immediately drops the phone into her lap so that she is not touching the screen. Too risky.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Okay, but I _can’t_ swipe right, because then she will _know_. But if I swipe left, she’ll _also_ know and will probably fire me.”

Emma is frantically pacing from one end of her bedroom to the other, phone against her ear. 

“Do you or do you not understand how Tinder works?” Ruby sighs on the other end. Emma does not know this, but Ruby is currently sitting on top of Mulan from the legal department, who is attempting to answer emails while Ruby straddles her. Ruby has always admired her dedication to her career. Also her six pack abs, Ruby definitely admires those.

“Is it the worst that I want to swipe right?”

“So just swipe right.” Another heaving sigh from Ruby. “Dude, this is such a non-issue. If you swipe right and she doesn’t, life goes on and no one knows. If she swipes right, too, it’s proof that you both wanna smash and you can just go ahead and smash. This is the beauty of Tinder. Risk-free with a chance of smashing.”

“She’s like...our boss. Not just our boss, but our really high level boss.” Emma nearly runs into her wall to keep up with her urgent pacing. 

“She also has a Tinder account, so on some level, she is down. Didn’t you say it says MILF on her profile?”

“No, it specifically says that you should _not_ call her a MILF.”

“That means she knows she is a MILF.” Ruby laughs, which Emma might think is in reaction to her statement, but is actually because Mulan has given up on emails. “Oh, that is too good.”

“What’s too good?”

“Nothing, don’t, uh... _ah,_ fuck...worry about it.” 

Emma makes a face at her phone. “Are you doing what I think you’re doing right now?”

A quick gasp from Ruby. “Nope, definitely not, _byeseeyoutomorrow_ ” and then the telltale three beeps of hanging up.

Well, that was not helpful.

 

 

 

 

An hour later, and Emma’s phone is still mocking her from afar, now placed a firm three feet away from her bed. She has decided, probably against all the better judgment in the world, to psych herself up to the actual swipe by doing two shots of tequila and blasting Ram Jam’s “Black Betty,” a song she associates with being powerful and also strippers. 

“You don’t own me,” she says to her phone, pointing harshly at it. “I can swipe right on some hot unattainable executive director who is executively directing my job or whatever, and that doesn’t _define_ me.”

The phone does not respond, as it is a phone.

As soon as she has finished the air guitar solo, Emma picks up her phone with a dramatic flourish, opens Tinder, and she swipes right on Regina Fucking Mills.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It takes a few seconds for Emma to process. Then she manages to throw the phone back onto the bed, and scream: “WHAT DO I EVEN DO WITH THIS INFORMATION?”

 

 

 

 

“But seriously, what do I even do with that information?”

Ruby and Mary Margaret have been silent while Emma explains the situation, including an in-depth interpretation of Regina’s one sentence profile and her photo choices. They’re all in line at the worst coffee place on earth, possibly because a part of Emma really wants to run into the lady in question again, possibly because it’s a Friday morning and no one can be arsed to get into work on time.

“Well,” Mary Margaret says, and then coughs gently into her fist. She glances at Ruby, and then back at Emma. “Um, it’s...well.”

Ruby’s eyes are narrowed, and Emma genuinely cannot read her expression. Not that Ruby is always an open book, but she’s certainly more transparent than this. Ruby orders her coffee, and then waits silently with hip cocked and one finger resting precariously on her chin in a very dramatic stance of thinking.

“Uh, guys? Could really use some help here.”

“I think you should go for it.” Ruby says, finally, only for Emma to nearly spill her coffee in response.

“Seriously.”

“Oh, I’m dead serious.” Ruby takes a very pensive sip of Emma’s coffee, and then strikes a dramatic pose, staring off into the distance. “You have a rare opportunity, my friend. In a world where no one knows what the heck anybody else is thinking, and where none of us have a chance with unattainable hotties 99.9% of the time, you’ve been given a clear and un-fuck-up-able signal: she is down. She is down as hell. And what do we do when we are told that they are down as hell?”

Emma is at a loss for words. “We...get...down?”

“Exactly. We get down. So, Emma Swan, you must take up this quest on behalf of all those who will never get the chance. You must get down.”

The barista hands Ruby her order, and Ruby gives it a sip, makes a face. “Oh, _come on_ , how fucking hard is it to use soy milk? Are we living in the prehistoric era, people? I know y’all can milk a damn soy bean.”

 

 

 

 


	5. RE: RE: Elevator

 

 

 

 

“Who are the stiffs?” 

Emma is gesturing over her shoulder to the collection of nearly identical white men in very expensive looking suits who are currently being given an overly enthusiastic and mostly-inaccurate tour of the sales department by Mr. Gold.

“Potential client.” Ruby rolls her eyes at one of the older suits, a middle-aged man with a massive mustache who is currently giving her a very intense and not-at-all subtle look. “Ugh, pitch that tent somewhere else, cub scout.”

“But we never bring them here. I thought we just wined and dined them at the corporate resort.”

“Totally new approach. Regina Mills wants the clients to see us in action, not just chug free champagne until they buy our smartphones. This was the whole focus of that big meeting last month, were you not paying attention?” Ruby suddenly smirks. “Oh, wait. That’s the meeting where you--”

“Yeah, got it.” Emma makes a lot of furious typing noises by pounding erratically on her keyboard. “Very busy, can’t talk. Lots of online communicating to do.”

Gold is swinging the tour in their direction, gesturing to their workspaces with an almost disturbing smile. 

“And here are some of our _stars_ of the sales team,” he says, looking directly at Emma and Ruby. There is some kind of pleading in his eyes, an expression that reads as _don’t fuck this up you absolute fuckwits._ “We may be a tech giant, but we’ve got that young and energetic startup vibe. You’ll notice Emma here is wearing comfortable footwear and a menswear-inspired blazer.” He leans in closer to the group of suits, nodding conspiratorally. “We are _very_ accepting of _all_ lifestyle choices.”

Emma balks. “Okay, while technically correct, that’s not even--”

“Just smile and wave,” Ruby hisses, and the two of them do just that.

As Gold ushers them on to the other side of the room, Perving Suit hands his card to Ruby. “You should call me,” he whispers, waggling his eyebrows.

“You should call your wife,” she hisses back. “She’s unfulfilled and she’s gonna take the kids.”

Needless to say, Perving Suit appears to see his own life flash before his eyes, and he hustles like an Olympic sprinter to catch up with his colleagues.

“Whoa.” Emma raises an eyebrow at Ruby’s truly inspired conviction. “When was the last time you turned down a sugar daddy opportunity?”

“I have standards,” Ruby says, disappearing back behind the divide. “They’re low, but they’re there. Speaking of sugar and opportunity, I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one in this workspace who could be exchanging sexual favors for expensive items. Some say that waste is the greatest sin of all.”

By some grand coincidence, Emma happens to come down with an extreme coughing fit at this exact moment that gives her no choice but to change the subject and stumble towards the water cooler.

 

 

 

 

Upon returning from the water cooler, Emma finds out she has been summoned to Gold’s office.

“If this is some fucking diversity thing where he makes me stand there while he tells the suits how great it is that I can wear a waistcoat to work--”

Ruby shrugs. “Hey, dude. Play your cards right and we could get ourselves a real fancy lawsuit up in here. I’d love to sit at home and bathe in diamonds instead of working because someone kept pointing out that you dress like a tomboy character in a 90s coming of age flick.”

“In what world do you also factor into the lawsuit?”

A sigh of exasperation. “Obviously we would pass me off as your partner, come on. I am the hottest person in this office. It’s a compliment.”

 

 

 

 

“Swan, come in! You know my office is neutral territory.”

Emma raises an eyebrow, poking her head in the door. This is the first time the curtains have not been drawn in his glass box of an office, and she can see that the three suits are currently sitting across from Gold, binders out. “You needed me, boss?”

Gold makes a very dramatic show of _flourishing_ a folder. “Make me 60 copies of this, will you?”

Emma carefully takes the folder from his hands, the suits watching her expectantly. “Uh...”

“I’ll need them by 11.”

Emma continues to stare between the folder in her hand and the man currently sitting at Gold’s desk who is either a fleshsuit-wearing imposter or her slowly unraveling boss. Gold/Goldfleshsuit gives the very important men in very expensive suits a too-wide grin, as if ready to launch what she can only imagine is a pandering comment about making copies. When he sees that Emma has not moved yet, he frowns.

“Is there a problem?”

“Uh, sir, it’s just that it’s 2015. And I thought we were kind of phasing out the whole ‘making paper copies’ thing.” She attempts the most innocent smile she can manage. “Also, I don’t know where the copier is. Do we have a photocopier?”

“Of _course_ we do.”

“Where is it?”

“It’s...” Gold appears to be thrown by this line of questioning, and begins to laugh maniacally again, gesturing to the very expensive and very important suit men for sympathy. “Well, it’s every employees’ responsibility to know where the copier is, Miss Swan.”

“Right.”

Gold narrows his eyes, clearly biding his time. “Exactly.”

“So...” She blinks. “Where is it?”

“It’s, you know...” Gold waves his hand slightly to the left. Emma knows for a fact the phantom photocopier is not slightly to the left. “Over there.”

“Uh, I--”

“ _Miss Swan._ ”

“Okay, got it.” She makes a big deal out of tucking the folder under her arm, heading for the door. “I’ll get right on it.”

“Fantastic, thanks so much!” Gold, who is now absolutely a lizard person in a flesh suit, gives her a thumbs up. Because that is something normal humans do, and not something that a lizard person might do to imitate a human. “Hey, did you catch the Ellen show yesterday? She’s great. Love that hair. She and Portia are _such_ a great couple.” Gold briefly checks the suits to make sure they are paying attention to this _generous_ and _obviously totally natural_ display of tolerance.

“Um, yeah. Sure. Bye.”

 

 

 

 

Okay, so, the one good thing to come out of this photocopier bullshit is that it does give Emma at least a 30 minute break to wander the rest of the building under the guise of seeking out the non-existent copy machine. Having a file folder under your arm is a golden ticket to never being questioned, never being stopped, and no one wondering why you’ve paced through the third floor six times in the last hour. She’s got a file folder! She must know what the fuck she’s doing, guys.

Thus it is with an unsubtle grin that she steps into the elevator, presses the highest buttons, and hums 50 Cent under her breath.

And really, at that point, it’s like she was asking for it.

 

 

 

 

“Oh,” Regina Mills says when she gets into the elevator on the fourth floor, and sees Emma standing there.

“Uh,” Emma freezes. “Hi? Hey.”

Regina steps in next to her, tablet under her arm.

_Don’t bring up Tinder. Don’t say MILF. Don’t even think about it. Don’t say a goddamned--_

“Late night, Miss Swan?”

_Oh, she would._

“Not really. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“So you’re always awake after midnight on a weeknight?”

Emma shrugs, attempting to come up with an answer that does not involve the words Tinder or MILF. “I’m more of a night person.”

“So am I. I don’t like to be idle after dark.” Regina gives Emma a look, and like, really. _Really._ “Old habit from long nights in business school, I suppose. Years later and I’m still wired for coffee after 9.”

_I mean, right, if that’s how the fuck you want to interpret that statement, Regina, sure._

Regina nods at the folder in Emma’s hand. “Important business?”

“I’m actually making copies.”

Regina raises an eyebrow. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. My department head wants 60 copies of this, stat.”

“Did you tell him he can download an app and make a pdf of it in about thirty seconds?”

“Yeah, I think it was more to do with the clients in his office than convenience. I know it was an ‘impress them with your power’ thing, whatever. I’d rather have a job than my dignity, trust me.”

Regina’s smile grows suddenly mischievous. Emma feels it like a punch to her ladyparts. “With your penchant for interrupting meetings with curse words, I can believe it.”

“Ouch,” Emma says, grabbing her chest. She feigns injury in spite of her extreme need to grin like a teenager right now. “Too soon, Ms. Mills.”

“Sorry for bringing it up,” Regina says, not looking even remotely sorry.

“Sorry I showed up to your meeting late with Starbucks, and then said ‘fuck’ in front of the entire company.”

Regina continues to smile. “We all make mistakes. I’m sorry I snapped at you the first time I met you.”

Emma is thrown by this. “It’s, uh...fine. Forgotten and forgiven.”

The elevator chimes, and the doors open. Emma realizes that she doesn’t want them to open, and that if there were to be an elevator incident that suspended the elevator doors indefinitely, causing them to spend the rest of the day inside the elevator, bonding for survival, perhaps using sex for warmth, she would not object.

Regina steps out, gives Emma a cool little smirk over her shoulder. “Have a good afternoon, Miss Swan.”

And as the elevator doors close, something demonic inside of Emma -- because that’s really the only way she can explain it -- compels her to blurt out: “Sorry about the whole Tinder thing. I mean, MILF is just, totally not cool. For them to call you. I mean, not that you aren’t a MILF, you are totally--”

And through the half an inch left between the doors, Emma can see Regina’s expression change considerably.

 

 

 

 

The photocopier is in the basement. Not that Emma really processes any of what she’s doing, as she is actively cringing.

 

 

 

 

To: eswan1@brooketech.com  
From: rmills1@brooketech.com  
Subject: Elevator

While I neither mind nor reject what happens in the realm of our smart devices, I’d prefer to leave that conversation outside of the workplace.

I appreciate your sentiment, however. The number of messages I receive concerning that subject is a troubling figure. 

To return to the earlier subject, I’ve learned that you have some compelling photos. If you’d like to discuss them further, I’d like to arrange a meeting for this afternoon. It’s relatively urgent.

R.M.

 

 

 

 

Emma needs to take about six to eleven laps of the third floor before she is even remotely close to handling what she has just read. When Emma finally slams herself back into her chair, Ruby inevitably appears above the partition.

“ _Soooooo_...”

Emma catches her breath, opening up some Excel files. “What’s up?”

“I don’t know,” Ruby says, playing casual. “Maybe you’re running around the sales department like a fucking lunatic? Does that sound familiar?”

“I’m stressed,” Emma lies, pretending that these Excel files are very important and daunting.

“Did you lose a tampon in there or something? A lot of the symptoms you show seem to correlate with Toxic Shock Syndrome.”

Emma raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you the one who says TSS was invented to sell more tampons?”

“I am, yes, but you’re also acting completely erratic, so I’m turning to fake diseases to justify your nutso behavior. _Unless_ ,” and here, Ruby’s eyes narrow and she is suddenly smiling in a very suspicious way. “You’re about to get down.”

“Dude, do not start on that shit.”

“Did I or did I not tell you that you need to go for it? Is she sexting you right now or something? Do you need to run off the lust so you don’t explode from blue clit?”

Emma makes a face. “That’s not a thing.”

“I’ll make it a thing, trust me. Shit’s gonna be a hashtag in a few days.”

“Anyway, I’m fine. Not a big deal.” She gestures vaguely at all her opened tabs of Excel. “It’s just business.”

 

 

 

 

And it very much is just business.

It’s just business when Emma emails her back, and when she gets an email in return. Completely totally utterly just business.

 

 

 

 

To: rmills1@brooketech.com  
From: eswan1@brooketech.com  
Subject: RE: Elevator

My afternoon is clear. Let me know what works for you. 

Emma

 

 

 

 

To: eswan1@brooketech.com  
From: rmills1@brooketech.com  
Subject: RE: RE: Elevator

Glad to hear it. Please report to my office at 4:30 PM.

R.M.

 

 

 

 

And it’s just business when she knocks on the door of the office, and gets an offer to come in.

Regina’s office is about what Emma had expected, typical of an executive’s hang at a Fortune 500 tech giant. Privacy, lots of glass furniture, and a wall that doubles as an interactive screen of some sort. Oh, and apparently no executive to be found.

Emma closes the door behind her, looking around for the woman who summoned her. She pretends that her entire body isn’t one pulsing nerve. “Hello?”

“In here, Miss Swan.”

It turns out that Regina’s office is, in fact, a suite. Emma steps past the floor to ceiling windows, finds that one of the walls is a sliding door, and finds that stepping through it will lead to the most perplexingly incredible sights of her life.

“Shit.”

The Executive Director of BrookeTech is waiting for her, sitting cross-legged on her glass desk, skirt pulled up to reveal a black garter and stockings. The Executive Director is also using one hand to undo the front of her undoubtedly-expensive white blouse. 

“Do you think you could do something about this situation, Miss Swan?” She catches her bottom lip with her teeth. “It’s a real problem.”

And Emma Swan, not one to typically ascend any corporate ladders, grins. “Problem-solving is one of my most endorsed skills on LinkedIn.”

 

 

 

 


	6. ATTACHED: Terms of Contract

 

 

 

 

Well, shit.

Emma wipes her mouth, acutely aware of the fact that there’s now lipstick smeared across the edge of her collar and possibly down her neck and in addition to the lipstick, there’s definitely...other certain substances on her person. Fluids, even. She can taste them on her tongue. She can feels the fast-drying slick of them on her fingers and knuckles. And there’s really no questioning where they came from.

_Shit._

“Miss Swan,” comes the voice behind her, husky and low, catching its breath, and she turns to see Regina Mills, still very much her executive fucking director, pointing at the black skirt at Emma’s feet. Emma distinctly remembers balling that skirt in her fists, pulling it up and out of the way to get to what she knew with every thrumming inch of her was underneath. Eventually, and this was around the time when she’d actually managed to get Regina bent over the desk, the skirt had been pulled off altogether, and Emma had tossed it over her shoulder, very much occupied with more important things.

“Uh, right. Sorry.” Emma picks up the skirt and hands it to its owner, not without noticing that the label is something French and she’s, like, 99.9% sure it costs about the same as half her year’s salary. She watches Regina, and _fuck_ , she’s literally standing there in next to nothing, white shirt hanging open. Regina pulls the skirt back on, takes any number of painfully...attentive...seconds to smooth it over her thigh. She looks up at Emma, smiles that smile that makes all the blood drain back into her groin. 

_Fuck._

“Thank you,” Regina says, buttoning up her blouse. “You’ve been extremely helpful, Miss Swan.”

Emma pretends like she isn’t turning bright red, rubs the back of her neck like a fucking teenage boy. “Hey, anytime.” She pulls on her own blazer, acutely aware that she should also brush off her knees as she was on them for fifteen of the last thirty minutes. “You should let me know if you run into similar problems again.”

“Oh, I will.” Regina nods in the direction of the door, smirking. “You’re definitely an authority on the subject.”

And okay, fine, this does make her ego inflate about fifty times its size, whatever. “Glad to see my bite holds up to my bark.”

“Your bite,” and Regina goes a little red, bites down on her lower lip when she looks away. “Yes.”

_Oh, fuck, shit. Fuck._

Regina walks her to the door of her front office, still smirking that totally and completely unbearably enticing smirk, and when she opens the door, shit, there’s the pool of assistants. Emma’s waiting them to all look up at her and give her eyes, but nope, they haven’t noticed.

“Productive meeting,” Regina says, smile back to its typical professional form. “Expect a follow-up email from me later. I think you’ll be great as a contractor.”

“I...absolutely.” 

And Emma hopes she does not reek of the desktop fucking she just gave the executive director as she walks to the elevator. _Fuck._

 

 

 

 

The second those elevator doors close, Emma turns to her reflection in the mirror.

“Get your shit together, Swan. You just fucked the executive director. You just made history. _Herstory._ You...you’re talking to yourself in a mirror. You’re probably not okay right now but that’s okay because you just saw Regina Mills have an orgasm. You gave her that orgasm, Swan. You got all up--”

The elevator doors open. Emma attempts a coughing fit while a few execs step on, looking over cautiously.

“Sorry,” she says. And then needs to use her hand to cover her mouth because oh wow, the beaming grin she is currently sporting. Oh, wow.

 

 

 

 

Not much later, she’s replying to a client email and happens to look down at her pants. Which are black. And now have a telltale stain from just above the knee to the middle of her thigh.

“Oh, _fuck,_ that is--”

But no need to finish that sentence out loud. Because when the executive director happens to straddle your leg when you’ve got her backed up against her desk, grinding on your thigh when you’re tugging her hair back to get your mouth on that graceful-ass neck of hers, well. There’s not much else it could be.

“You going home?” Ruby appears over the divide as if choreographed. She lifts up her basket of trash with one hand and lights her lighter in the other. “Because I am going to start a trash fire if I don’t leave this office immediately.”

“Don’t set your trash on fire. And no, I have some emails to answer first. You should go home before you commit a crime.”

Ruby shrugs. “It’s only a crime if you’re caught.”

Right.

 

 

 

 

 _Right?_ Riiiiight??

 

 

 

 

To: eswan1@brooketech.com  
From: rmills1@brooketech.com  
Subject: ATTACHED: Terms of Contract

Good morning Miss Swan.

Attached, please find an official terms of contract in regards to our meeting yesterday. Please sign and return to me at your nearest convenience.

R.M.

 

You will report to me when summoned.  
You will do as you are told. If I instruct you to go harder, you will go harder. If I tell you I want deeper, then you will go deeper.  
You will not question or negotiate my summons, even if the location seems unorthodox.  
A safe word will be agreed upon at our next meeting. You will agree to this safe word and hold it in the utmost.  
You may make requests for meetings, but you are limited to three a week. It is within my right to turn the request down.

 

 

 

 

Emma gives the area around her a thorough investigation before opening and closing the document. “Hey Rubes?”

“Sup.” Ruby appears above the divide, a considerable hickie on her neck peering out from under a clashing scarf. Emma snorts.

“Eventful night?”

Ruby grins. “It was hump day yesterday. I celebrated accordingly.”

“Do you know how to edit a PDF without the Adobe suite?”

Ruby nods, coming around the other side of the cubicle. “Sure, do you wanna show me the--”

“No, _nope_ ,” Emma scrambles to close the document, immediately opening a random email instead. “It’s not a real document. Just like...a general knowledge question.”

“Um, _okay_.” Ruby raises an eyebrow. “Are you trying to add a signature?”

“You know what? I’ll google it.”

“You’re acting shadier than a palm tree, Coconuts.”

“Too much coffee. I’ll be fine.” Emma attempts to shrug casually, which is not casually, which becomes a jerky spastic motion that sort of moves her shoulders from side to side.

“And here they voted _me_ Most Likely To Have A Meltdown on our team.” Ruby makes a dramatic hand gesture. “First she won’t let me start a trash fire, now she’s stealing my superlatives.”

 

 

 

 

To: rmills1@brooketech.com  
From: eswan1@brooketech.com  
Subject: RE: ATTACHED: Terms of Contract

I couldn’t print out a copy but imagine this has my signature on the bottom.

In other words, I very much agree to all the terms.

Emma

 

 

 

 

So, that contract.

Turns out Emma is going to have to make fast work of that contract after all.

 

 

 

 

To: eswan1@brooketech.com  
From: rmills1@brooketech.com  
Subject: RE: RE: ATTACHED: Terms of Contract

Noted.

Please note in today’s schedule that you are needed for a meeting in the fourth floor multipurpose room at noon. Thank you.

R.M.

 

 

 

 

Emma locks the door behind her. 

“I can see what you meant by unorthodox locations.”

Regina gestures around the room, perched on the edge of a table. “No windows,” she says. “And there’s never anyone in this part of the floor during lunch. Complete privacy.”

Emma grins. “I’m pretty sure when they say multipurpose room, they don’t expect one of the purposes to be fu--”

“No quipping, Miss Swan.” And Regina grabs her by the front of her shirt and shuts her up with a very strategic kiss.

 

 

 

 

“Fuck,” she groans, and there’s a hand at the back of her neck, pulling her down, forehead against forehead.

“Harder. _Now._ ” Regina shudders, and then plunges her nails into Emma’s spine. “The contract, Miss Swan.” Her knees tighten around Emma’s waist like the best kind of threat.

“The contract, right,” Emma says, and pushes Regina onto her back on the table.

And she drops to her knees, knowing exactly where her mouth goes.

“You...fuck, _esa boca_...signed.”

“I know,” Emma grins into her. “But I’m freelancing right now.”

 

 

 

 

Well, fuck.

For the second time that week, Emma wipes her mouth, pushes her hair back, and surveys her work. Regina’s still sprawled out on the table, dressed but for the skirt hiked to her waist, panting softly. She lets out a long sigh, twisting her head to look at Emma, her fist still firmly between her teeth from when she was practicing the art of being very, very quiet. Regina’s eyes narrow and sparkle and fuck, oh fuck, something right in front of Emma’s pelvic bone actually starts to ache.

“You need to work on following directions,” Regina says, sitting upright. “You came very close to breaking the contract.”

Emma smirks, finding a chair to sprawl in. “You liked the way I almost broke it, though.”

“You won’t make a habit of it.” Regina pulls her outfit back into place, managing to look bafflingly perfect in another minute of rearranging. “Don’t get cocky, Miss Swan. There are consequences for that kind of behavior.”

“Maybe I like consequences.”

And Regina Mills steps right over to her, adjusts Emma’s collar, and slips a hand down the front of Emma’s pants.

“Fuck.”

“ _Que mojada estás._ ” 

And then she removes her hand, licks her fingers, and leaves Emma in the fourth floor multipurpose room.

 

 

 

 

Google informs Emma that Regina was telling her that she was wet -- duh, Emma is well-aware of how fucking aroused one gets from fucking Regina Mills -- right before leaving her high and dry. 

Fine. If she wants to play dirty -- within the rules of her contract, of course -- then Emma is happy to oblige.

 

 

 

 


	7. RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Holiday Party Protocol

 

 

 

 

“Can I help you, ma’am?”

Ruby is holding up the coffee line once again, as if she’s trying to make a habit out of it. “I want one of those fancy Christmas drinks, you know what I mean? Something to get me in the spirit. Mocha peppermint gingerbread cranberry something.”

“I could put a shot of peppermint in a mocha.”

“Does it have a cutesy name though? I’m kinda here for the whole experience. Like, is it called a Frostbite? Or a North Pole Frappe?”

The barista sighs. “I’ll make up a name right now. Look,” and she holds up an empty takeout cup with the least amount of enthusiasm any human could ever muster. “A Merry Mint Mocha.” 

“Is that a thing?”

The barista shoves the cup towards her coworker. “It is now. Next!”

Mary Margaret, strictly a tea drinker and not a coffee drinker which she says as if it’s a _moral_ issue, purses her lips and asks for hot water. She smiles placidly at Emma, obviously hoping to change the subject.

“So, did you two sign up for Secret Santa?”

“Suspicious Generic Holiday Patron, you mean?” Ruby shrugs. “Last year I got a mug that said ‘Ho Ho Ho.’”

“That’s cute,” Mary Margaret tries. “Very festive.”

“ _Or_ they were calling me a skank three times over. Hard to tell with the legal department.” Ruby narrows her eyes. “They know too much.”

Emma stands with her very underwhelming latte, now wondering if she should have gotten the Peppermint Frosty Whatever. “Well, I signed up. Maybe we’ll all get each other and we can just wrap a twenty dollar bill.”

“What am I supposed to do with a twenty dollar bill?”

Emma shrugs. “That’s, like...sixty McNuggets.”

“Or a liter and a half of Malibu. I like the way you think, Swan.”

 

 

 

 

Emma draws Killian, a well-known office creep in the mail room. Killian wears fingerless black gloves and tends to lean in very close to female coworkers when dropping off their mail. He is known among the Sales Department as ‘Hot Topic.’

“I guess you could get him a fedora,” Ruby suggests. “Or a fedora rack.”

“I’d get him more guyliner but I don’t know his brand.”

Ruby takes a sip of her coffee from her Ho Ho Ho mug. “Oh, that is Rite Aid eyeliner if I’ve ever seen it.”

“You know, I found his OkCupid profile last year. I think under his likes, he had ‘treating a woman right’. Maybe I could get him, like...a voucher for a dating seminar.”

“Hot Topic thinks he’s a pickup artist, honey. Don’t waste your time or money. I say get him a novelty tie and be done with it.”

 

 

 

 

Emma gets him a Christmas tree necktie. She thinks it probably will clash with his all-black attire and his attempt at Johnny Depp levels of man-jewelry, but she doesn’t really care that much.

She does make sure to wrap it in the most festive Frozen wrapping paper she can find, though.

 

 

 

 

To: eswan1@brooketech.com  
From: rmills1@brooketech.com  
Subject: Meeting at 2:45

I have you booked for a post-lunch meeting in my office at 2:45. Will this be a problem?

R.M.

 

 

 

 

To: rmills1@brooketech.com  
From: eswan1@brooketech.com  
Subject: RE: Meeting at 2:45

I’ll free up my schedule.

Emma

 

 

 

 

“Is that... _Santa_ underwear?”

Emma looks down at her boxer briefs, red and white and spangled across the ass with ‘Naughty or Nice?’. She shrugs. “That wasn’t even on purpose. It’s laundry day.”

“Of course.” The Executive Director pans down to the briefs again, smirks. She’s sitting on her desk, blouse unbuttoned to reveal a bright red bra. Emma grins, cocky as usual, at it.

“Is that your Santa bra, then?”

Regina laughs, that one laugh that makes Emma’s whole body stand at attention. “No, Miss Swan. I don’t own any novelty holiday underwear.” 

Emma pins the director’s hands to the glass surface of the table, joins them at Regina’s back. “How adult of you.”

“I’m a corporate executive. The penultimate sign of adulthood.” Regina throws her head back, just in time for Emma to kiss under her jaw. “But you seem to like a woman in charge, don’t you?”

Emma gives her neck a little nip. Regina growls. “We’ll see who’s in charge this afternoon.”

 

 

 

 

And here’s the thing that’s really starting to get to Emma, and by that she means it’s actually tearing her apart, limb by limb, aching digit by aching digit:

Regina does this thing where right before she comes, she wants to be as close to Emma as possible. Even if Emma’s been behind her, even if she’s pinned her against the desk or the chair or the wall and it’s rough and hard and not particularly tender, Regina will lock her arms behind Emma’s neck, pulling her close so their cheeks are touching, so Regina’s mouth can brush Emma’s ear.

And Emma hears every single ragged breath, every single increasingly ecstatic moan, until those hands pull her in, dig into her skin like they’re trying to burrow there. When the body under hers finally trembles and collapses, Emma thinks she’s never been physically closer to anyone, ever.

Sure, she’s inside of her. But she’s been inside of other women. And no matter how deep, how intense, how... _anything_ , it’s never been like this. She’s never felt like when they separate, she’s leaving a bit of her behind, warm and buried.

“That was--” But Regina kisses her fiercely, quickly, and pulls out from under her, gets to work on buttoning up her shirt and redoing her hair. Emma sits back in Regina’s chair for a minute more, takes it all in, but gets the hint. Before she leaves, she turns at the door.

“Are you, uh, coming to the holiday party?” 

Regina looks out from her office, putting an earring back in. She narrows her eyes. “Why?”

Emma blushes, shrugging. “I don’t know. Just wondering. It’s gonna be a hot mess, maybe that’s the kind of thing you find entertaining.”

“I’m not one for hot messes, typically.”

Emma grins in spite of herself. “Fucking your employee isn’t a hot mess?”

Regina bites down on her lip, eyes sparking. “Have a good day, Miss Swan.”

“I’m just saying--”

“Like I said, Miss Swan. A _good_ day.”

And like that, she closes the door to her inner office. Emma runs her tongue over her teeth, thinks about the toothbrush she’s now hidden in the third floor bathroom, and smiles as she opens the door onto the pool of assistants.

 

 

 

 

To: Office Staff  
From: ‘Human Resources’ hr@brooktech.com  
Subject: Holiday Party Protocol

Happy Holidays to the Brooketech Office Staff!

As we approach the holiday party this Friday, we’d like to remind everyone of some important rules to follow that will keep everyone happy and safe, and avoid a few hiccups of the past.

1\. Please limit yourselves to three alcoholic beverages per person. You may only consume alcohol provided by the party committee. Leave your flasks at home, please!  
2\. The tables in the staffroom cannot support the weight of more than one person, especially when standing and moving.  
3\. Employees’ clothing must remain on at all times. You know who you are - and you’re on your second warning, so you know very well that you are in the danger zone.  
4\. If you’re bringing baked goods from home as part of the party initiative, please make sure they do not contain tiny bottles of liquor. We shouldn’t have to say this for the fourth year in a row, but Extra Secret Ingredient Cupcakes are strictly banned from the party.   
5\. If you’re bringing a guest to the party, you’ll need to give their information to HR by Thursday at 5 PM. No, we don’t do background checks, and if you keep asking if we’re doing background checks, you may lose your guest privileges, as that is really sketchy, Gold.  
6\. Appropriate attire is a must. For yet another year, we must remind you that naughty Christmas sweaters, especially those that graphically depict male genitalia, are not allowed. Ladies, respect yourselves and wear sensible outfits. If it would have to be blurred out on daytime television, it should not be on display at our office holiday party.  
7\. Children are not allowed. This should go without saying, but every year, someone brings an infant and tries to breastfeed in the conference room. This is an adult function. And if you didn’t want certain mailroom employees taking photographs of you breastfeeding, then you shouldn’t break the rules and bring a baby you would have to breastfeed in the first place.

 

Looking forward to a wonderful party with everyone!

Mary Margaret Blanchard  
Human Resources

 

 

 

 

To: Office Staff, Human Resources’ hr@brooktech.com  
From: rlupine@brooketech.com  
Subject: RE: Holiday Party Protocol

Yo M&M this email was harsh. Calling out my shit with that danger zone line, girl I see you. Watch that I don’t POUR A SNOWBALL VODKATINI ALL OVER YOU AT THE PARTY WITH MY CLOTHES OFF

Rubes

 

 

 

 

To: rlupine@brooketech.com, Human Resources’ hr@brooktech.com  
From: eswan@brooketech.com  
Subject: RE: RE: Holiday Party Protocol

Ruby, you replied all.

Just an FYI.

Emma

 

 

 

 

To: eswan@brooketech.com, Human Resources’ hr@brooktech.com  
From: rlupine@brooketech.com  
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Holiday Party Protocol

RUDE

 

 

 

 

To: rlupine@brooketech.com, Human Resources’ hr@brooktech.com  
From: eswan@brooketech.com  
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: Holiday Party Protocol

 

 

 

 

To: eswan@brooketech.com, Human Resources’ hr@brooktech.com  
From: rlupine@brooketech.com  
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Holiday Party Protocol

 

 

 

 

To: rlupine@brooketech.com, eswan@brooketech.com  
From: Human Resources’ hr@brooktech.com  
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Holiday Party Protocol

For the record, the Human Resources email is used by all members of the Human Resources department, and is automatically sent to all members of the Human Resources department.

So unless you wanted this exchange witnessed by 16 additional people, you should probably stop adding us to the cc.

Best,

James Whale  
Head of Human Resources

 

 

 

 

At 5 PM on Friday, Ruby steps into the elevator, adjusts her scarf, and asks the question that she was destined to ask since the dawn of time.

“Are we pregaming this holiday party or what?”

Mary Margaret, pressed between them in her all-white winter ensemble, turns red. “Ruby, did you even read my email?”

“Chill, M and M. I brought you an apple juice.” She tosses her a bottle of apple juice. “And if you decide to grow a pair in the next hour or so, there’s bourbon to go in that.”

“This is peer pressure,” Mary Margaret moans, staring at the apple juice forlornly.

“It’s not my fault you don’t know how to have fun, girl.”

“You can have lots of fun without substances!” Mary Margaret frowns. “I don’t need drugs and alcohol to knit a scarf, do I?”

Ruby shoots Emma a look over Mary Margaret’s beret. “It’s a miracle you’re sexually active, honestly.”

“What does that have to do with--”

“To answer your first question,” Emma says, pulling out the flask she has been keeping in her desk for the last month. “I would like to pregame this holiday party, yes.”

“Emma!” Mary Margaret’s frown continues, and she points at the flask. “We specifically said no flasks. I expected better from you, Emma.”

“I know, I know,” Emma puts it back in her coat. “You’re suspiciously good at making people feel guilty, did you know that?”

Mary Margaret blinks, smiling a quietly smug little smile. “I’ve been told.”

The elevator doors open to the faint sound of Christmas music, and a dimly lit hall The most impressive floor, the ninth floor, is the one they rent out for the Christmas party each year, as it seems to have the most glass walls, a way to detract from people hooking up in closets. It also has a giant balcony, which gives even the most socially awkward employees an opportunity to be loud outdoors while pretending to smoke.

“Okay,” Ruby says, downing her plastic pouch of clear alcohol, produced from thin air. “ _Damn_ , that is harsh.”

Mary Margaret rolls her eyes. “That wasn’t necessary, you know. You could have a fine time without getting inebriated.”

“Nope,” Ruby says, striding into the hall and dropping her coat, revealing a ridiculously revealing green sequined dress. “I feel fantastic already.” She kisses the empty pouch. “Thanks, grain alcohol!”

 

 

 

 

Emma is grateful for the flask, honestly. Because were she not slightly warmed up for this party, she might actually feel awkward doing what she’s currently doing. And what she’s currently doing is trying to find Regina.

“Hey,” Ruby grabs her arm, dragging her towards the balcony. She sniffs the red cup in Emma’s hand. “Was this from the punch bowl on the left or right table?”

“Uh, left?”

“Oh, good.” She hands the cup back, grinning. “I spiked that one.”

“They’re already alcoholic, Rubes.”

“Well, now they’re basically cocktails, you’re welcome. Look, I’m trying to figure out which one of these sorry saps I want to sloppily hook up with in front of everybody, any ideas?”

Emma looks at the sea of mostly inebriated employees, in a mix of suits, ugly sweaters, and truly inappropriate holiday outfits. She shrugs. “I’m kinda busy, honestly--”

“Fine, fine. Be unhelpful. That is _not_ the true holiday spirit, Swan.”

“The true holiday spirit is having a public makeout session with a stranger?”

“This is what Baby Jesus was born for, duh. ‘Tis the season.” Ruby narrows her eyes. “That person looks perturbed and married. _Perfect._ ”

Emma continues looking, pushing her way through the crowd and narrowly avoiding having any number of alcoholic beverages spilled on her. Just as she’s about to look on the balcony, she sees a familiar face.

Over her typical business attire, Regina is wearing a lumpy and truly hideous Christmas sweater. Her arms are folded as she sips a cup of punch, standing on the edge of the party with a small group of other uncomfortable-looking executives. When she sees Emma approaching, she smirks, and then maintains a very serious expression.

“Miss Swan,” she says, nodding. Emma tries not to grin at the sight of this woman in a sweater depicting two reindeer...dancing? Intercoursing? Maybe?

“Happy holidays,” Emma says, keeping her cool. _You keep that fucking cool, Swan._ “Enjoying the party?”

“It’s...” Regina says, just as a pair of employees in green onesies tumble off a table and onto the floor, where they continue awkwardly dancing. “Certainly interesting.”

“My department head is looking for you,” Emma lies, nodding towards the crowd. “Do you want to go see what he wants?”

“Of course,” Regina hands her cup to the man next to her, smiling curtly. “Sorry gentlemen, I’ll only be a moment.”

The other executives nod, shuffling uncomfortably. “Honestly,” the one with the beard says. “This is probably a good cue for me to head home. I’m sure Deborah has dinner on and the in-laws are coming over--”

“Ah, me as well.” The other one chimes in. “Wouldn’t want to keep the family waiting.”

“But this was _fun_.” Beard says, waving awkwardly and heading for the door. “Good evening everyone.”

“They don’t take well to mingling with the commoners, do they?” Emma smirks as they weave through the crowd, Regina just behind her. She hears Regina’s laugh.

“The executives never go to the company parties. We have our own private functions. I insisted they all be there this year, as an effort to shift the culture. As you can see, they’re not too fond of that initiative. Only two showed up, and now they’re...gone wherever they’ve gone.”

“And what about you?” Emma pauses at the door to the balcony, turning to her. “Are you dying to leave?”

Regina’s eyes catch like fire, those teeth kneading her bottom lip for a moment. She looks at Emma like a delightful challenge. “If you must know, Miss Swan, I was hoping to be persuaded to stay.”

“Well, I’m sorry to report that my department head is neither looking for you nor in any state to hold a conversation,” Emma says, recalling that she last saw Gold arguing passionately with someone under a table. 

“I assumed,” Regina says, following her onto the balcony. 

Emma pulls out the emergency pack of cigarettes that she keeps in the back of her desk drawer, clamps a cigarette between her lips. Regina raises an eyebrow.

“You smoke?”

Emma shrugs. “Only when I drink. You want one?”

Regina shakes her head. “No, thank you.” She looks at Emma in a way she hasn’t before, watches Emma exhale and Emma can swear she sees her breathe harder. “You’ve still got a few surprises, don’t you?”

“Not really,” Emma says, shrugs again as she pulls. “You just don’t know anything about me.”

“I know a few things about you.” Regina leans against the balcony, looks at her thoughtfully and fuck, it does make Emma’s whole body feel warm again. “There are things we talk about, and things we don’t talk about.” And then she doesn’t continue, and Emma knows better than to press.

“So, this is a bit different.” Emma gestures around them at the crowded balcony. “I thought we weren’t going to interact with each other outside of very closed doors.”

“Some say there’s privacy in a crowd,” Regina says. She nods at Emma’s cigarette, bites her lip. “Could I have a drag of that?”

Emma nods, hands it over. She watches with the utmost attention as Regina inhales, the spark illuminating the scar on her lip. She closes her eyes when she exhales, smoke obscuring those eyes that Emma has learned not to get lost in anymore, just for practical sake. 

“Christ.” Regina hands it back, their fingers brushing. “Sometimes I miss that.”

“Old vice?”

“Pre-motherhood vice. There are times when I would die for a pack of menthols, one right after the other, but certain parts of my life pull a little stronger.” She looks over at Emma. “I used to sit on my fire escape and drop the ashes on my neighbor’s garden. He used to have the loudest, most obnoxious sex I have ever heard in my life. Every woman going through that apartment was faking. So I’d dump my ashtray out in his plants and not feel even a little bit bad about it.”

Emma snorts. “Good for your neighbor you quit, then.”

“Oh, that was many apartments ago. No obnoxious neighbors in a penthouse.”

Emma holds up her hands, makes a face. “Look out, we’ve got a rich badass over here.”

Regina rolls her eyes. “I didn’t mean it that way.” She eyes the cigarette again. “One more drag? I promise.”

Emma hands the stub over, grinning. “Don’t make me an enabler, Ms. Mills.”

“Oh, hush.”

“So, what’s your son’s name?”

Regina gives her a look, puts out the cigarette when she’s finished. “His name is Henry.”

“Henry, huh. That’s a good name.”

Regina smirks, though there’s distance in her eyes. “I know.”

“Is this one of the things we don’t talk about?”

“I don’t know,” Regina says, folds her arms across her chest -- and that hideous sweater -- as if she’s cold. “I’ll have to think about that.”

“No problem,” Emma says, and leans against the balcony railing next to her. If their elbows happen to touch, well, she doesn’t complain. “Nice sweater, by the way.”

Regina pulls on the end of it, stretching out the full scene of reindeer extravagance. “My assistant picked it out. It’s the most hideous thing I’ve ever seen.” She looks over at Emma, eyes narrowing. “Thank god I’m not here to make myself attractive to anyone else.”

“Right,” Emma says, snorting. “They’d be totally turned off by that sweater. It is a holiday boner kill for sure.”

And Regina Mills, Executive Director of Brooketech, manages to look slightly wounded for a minute. “Really?” she asks, and Emma has to laugh warmly, touch her elbow in as subtle a way as possible.

“No,” she says, and heads towards the door, hoping she takes the hint.

 

 

 

 


	8. ATTN: Brooketech Holiday Hours

 

 

 

 

“Twenty questions, I’ll start.”

Regina refills her red cup with Emma’s flask, raises an eyebrow. “Oh, is this a middle school sleepover now?

“Why, you looking to get your hair braided? I can make a mean friendship bracelet.”

“I’ll pass on the braids.”

“Then you won’t pass on the questions.”

Regina smirks, takes a sip of her drink. Emma will take that as a yes. She’s sitting in Regina’s executive chair in her dimly lit office, a single lamp on in the corner, late night downtown casting its glow on their faces through the floor to ceiling windows. She realizes that this is the longest they’ve both remained completely clothed in this room, Regina still wearing that hideous sweater, heels off as she sits on top of her own desk, one leg tucked under her. They’re not touching, another rarity in this space, a space they’ve marked with many, er, _different_ types of physical contact, but something about the air is still warm with intimacy. Warm, and new, but good. 

So with that in mind, typical bleeding heart dumbass that she is:

“What is it exactly that you like about me?”

Regina runs her tongue over her teeth, and even in the dark, Emma can see her roll her eyes. “So this is going to be _that_ kind of twenty questions.”

Emma spreads her hands, wishes she didn’t feel slightly hurt by the fucking eyeroll. “Hey, that’s a legitimate thing to ask. Nice and straightforward. It’s a good place to start.”

Regina snorts. “I can’t imagine where it’s going to end, then.”

“We’ve already been where these things end. Jesus, we’ve been there twice a week on average for the last month and a half.”

“No.” Regina seems to be more invested in her drink, taking a long swig. “That’s something completely different.” She must see the way Emma’s looking at her, because she balks, looks almost guilty for a second. “It _is_ ,” she says. “It’s different.”

“Fine,” Emma takes it directly from the flask, skipping the cup this time. “I’ll ask an easier question, one that doesn’t inhabit a black hole of feelings.”

“I’d hardly call it a ‘black hole of feelings’. That’s beyond dramatic, Miss Swan.”

“What’s the first thing you remember? Your first memory.”

Regina doesn’t even hesitate. “My mother’s voice.”

“Wow. Do you remember what she said?”

“No.” Regina stretches out one leg, runs her hands down her thigh. Emma is acutely, like, _embarrassingly_ aware of this motion. “She wasn’t happy with me, though. She was telling me not to do something.” She notices Emma noticing, smirks. “Is it my turn?”

“Yes, and there’s no repeats. No cheating with lazy questions, Mills.”

“Do you always get women drunk so you can play juvenile word games with them?”

“Is that your question?” Emma whistles. “Damn, that is a waste of a question. Here I am, an open book of juicy secrets waiting to be revealed, and you go and ask me if--”

“What’s the worst lie you’ve ever told?”

“Shit, right for the jugular. Way to be ruthless, Mills.”

Regina feigns innocence. “You said juicy, Miss Swan.”

“Fine, fine. Should have figured you’d go and up the stakes.” 

Emma has to reach around in the ol’ noggin for a moment, knowing full well that all she can think about is that last week Regina had looked into her eyes during a particularly intense moment and said:

“It’s amazing what you can make me feel without it having to be real.”

which was a very convoluted way of saying ‘You fuck me like you love me but that’s crazy because you definitely couldn’t love me, right?” Which was all the worse because Emma had nodded and groaned into her next movement and desperately, desperately wished that this was something she was capable of, being able to fake this level of passion and intensity instead of knowing that it came from a very specific part of her aching chest. That was the last time she’d told (or grunted, whatever) a blatant lie, and it’s still up there in things that make her lie awake in bed at night and listen to sad rap music and think about her recent choices.

Not much else comes to mind, except, well...

“I told someone I didn’t love them anymore, but I still did.”

Regina makes a noise as she sighs, but there’s something considerate in her expression. “I think we’ve all told that lie.”

“Pretty bleak, I know,” Emma says, and then pauses to think. “Favorite color?”

It doesn’t take Regina nearly as long to answer that. “Purple. Or certain shades of red.”

“You look good in both those colors.”

And the executive director blushes at that, score one for the sales department. “You’re a bit biased, Miss Swan.” She stretches briefly, arms behind her and chest thrust forward. Of course Emma notices, and of course Regina notices Emma noticing. There’s a smirk on her bright lips. “When you were a child, what did you want to be when you grew up?”

“A superhero, or a dog. Maybe a superhero dog. You?”

“A horse jockey. Then, the president.”

Emma snorts. “You’re pretty fucking close to getting your wish.”

“Executive director of Brooketech is not the president of the United States.” Regina shrugs. “Not that I still want to be the president of the United States.”

“Well, you can always fall back on jockey. You _are_ riding something about twice a week, if that’s any--”

Regina hits her in the side with her elbow. Emma feigns pain, which Regina seems determined to soothe.

This gesture somehow evolves into a passionate makeout session, thereby interrupting twenty questions for about twenty minutes.

 

 

 

 

“Favorite food?”

“Pancakes.”

“Seriously?”

“I love me a good stack of pancakes,” Emma shrugs, now from the floor as her back is against the desk drawers. Regina is leaning in next to her, one knee pulled to her chest like a teenager, elbow balancing on it. “Favorite song?”

“ _Amor Prohibido_ , probably.”

“Rest in peace, Selena.”

They clink red cups.

“So,” Emma tries. “You’re bilingual.”

Regina raises an eyebrow. “Is that a question?”

“It is if I say it with a little more lift at the end of the sentence. Lemme try that again. So, you’re _bilingual_?” She puts a lot of emphasis on the question mark.

“I am not bilingual, actually.”

“But you’re like...”

And now that eyebrow is sky high. “Half Puerto Rican? Does that mean I have to be fluent in Spanish?”

“For the record, you _have_ cursed in Spanish on multiple sexual occasions.”

“I see. So my speaking Spanish is some sort of exotic sexual thing to you?”

“No, I will take moaning in English as a compliment, too. It’s all moans to me.” Emma shrugs. “I just wondered. If you’re not bilingual, then why--”

“My mother chose to raise me with English instead of my father’s language because she thought she was giving me the best possible future in a country that is not friendly to outsiders. I speak both now because I want my son to have that piece of himself. I am not fluent, but I am comfortable holding a conversation, and I use it much more often lately because I am trying to get to a point where my family can speak it in the house. Is that an adequate explanation?”

“Shit.” Emma nods, feeling a bit idiotic. “Yeah, yeah it’s more than adequate. I’m sorry if that was out of line.”

“It wasn’t.” There’s still a bit of shine in Regina’s eyes, radiating off her like a fucking wave of heat. “I know why you assumed. Most people do.”

“So was Henry’s other parent, um, Latino, then?”

“I adopted Henry on my own.”

“Oh.”

“And as for your careful choice of the word ‘parent’, I could have gone for either.” She narrows her eyes, smirks as she knows this is answering a long-standing question with Emma. “In case that clears things up for you.”

“And could you still, uh, go for either?”

“I’m always bisexual, Miss Swan.”

Emma pretends like her stomach is not tying itself into a knot of total and complete insecure jealousy. “No, no. I mean, are you still actively looking for either?”

Regina doesn’t get it at first, but when she does, her entire face explodes into emotion, some of it a bit amused. “You’re asking if I’m seeing other people.” Those wicked, wicked lips twist into a smile. “Is that your official question, Miss Swan?”

“Ugh,” Emma covers her face with a spare, mostly drunk hand. “I don’t know,” she groans into her palm. “Whatever, forget I asked.”

“No, no,” Regina says, downing the last contents of her red cup in an impressive unladylike swig. “According to the rules of the game, I’m required to answer.” She looks Emma straight in the eye. “No, Miss Swan, I am not seeing other people. Not that we are technically seeing each other, at least not by most definitions, I’d say. What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Are you ‘seeing other people’?”

Now it’s Emma’s turn to consume all the alcohol she has left. She shrugs again, this time like it’s a shrugging contest and she has to win first place or else she’ll be dragged into the streets and paraded around in her shame. “I guess not. I mean, I’m not actively looking around, but if someone were to run into me or something and there was, uh, a connection--”

“Like at a coffee shop? If someone hit on you at a coffee shop?”

Regina smirks. Emma rolls her eyes.

“Well, _sure_ , but then if they laugh at my business card--”

“I wasn’t laughing at it. I just thought it was totally and completely laughable that my first day of a new job, one in which I am already completely underestimated as a woman, I end up running late, and then the one attractive person who hits on me happens to be off-limits because she works for Brooktech.”

“Wait, so you weren’t laughing at my technique?”

“Oh, no, using your business card to pick up women _is_ ridiculous, but it would have worked had I not seen the company name on your card.”

“I would argue that it _did_ work and that it is _not_ ridiculous considering our current position.”

“And what position is that, Miss Swan?” Regina slides over, now straddling Emma’s lap. “Is it this position?”

Emma grins, grabbing a fistful of Regina’s truly perfect ass in the meantime. “I’d say it’s any position you want it to be.”

“How about the position of keeping it casual?”

“If that position still involves me getting to do stuff like...fuck, _this_...then yes. That’s a very good position.”

 

 

 

 

3 am and they’re pulling on coats, taking the elevator through a silent, dark building. Emma tries very hard not to keep grabbing Regina’s ass, the front of her winter jacket, as they stand side by side, Regina smiling a knowing smile, Emma attempting not to outright grin.

When they pass the night security guard, Regina quickens her pace. Emma is tempted to pull her coat over her head but that would be probably be, uh, more conspicuous.

Outside, it’s snowing. Emma doesn’t miss the way Regina looks up and licks a snowflake off her top lip. 

“On our scale of casual, where does sharing an Uber home fall?”

Regina looks over at her, eyebrows raised.

“That is, so long as you haven’t been lying, and _actually_ live in my neighborhood.”

Regina rolls her eyes. “I do.” 

“In that penthouse of yours, right. Because you made a point of mentioning how hard you ball. Because you ball so hard.”

And now the executive director smirks. “Yes, motherfuckers want to fine me. Or at least that’s what my accountant tells me, Miss Swan.”

“A+ reference, Mills. Well, I am not ballin’ in my basement level apartment with one window, but it’ll just make my rags to riches story that much more compelling.”

 

 

 

 

And of course the Uber pulls up to the extremely swanky end of Emma’s neighborhood, right up to a particularly swanky building. _Oh shit, she has a fancy-ass doorman? Truly balling hard, Mills._ Regina turns to Emma, looks at her and maybe Emma’s projecting but damn if it doesn’t kind of seem like Regina doesn’t want the night to end. 

“I guess I’ll see you on Monday, then. Are you spending the holidays with your family?”

“No family, unfortunately. Perks of being a foster kid.”

Something in Regina’s face shifts. “You were a foster child?”

“It didn’t come up during twenty questions.” Emma shrugs. “Don’t worry about it. Keeping it casual, remember? I’ll see you next week.”

Regina seems to be waiting to say something, but she bites her lip, nods quickly, professionally. “Merry Christmas, Emma.”

“ _Feliz navidad_ , Regina.”

And there’s a look on Regina’s face, probably because Emma so rarely calls her by her name, probably because Regina so rarely calls her Emma, anyway, and then she slides out of the backseat, closes the door behind her.

The Uber driver takes this opportunity to turn down ‘I’ll Be Home for Christmas’ and offer her a water bottle.

“So you guys are doing it, huh?”

Emma blinks. “ _Um_.”

“Pickup at an office building at 3 am, two slightly disheveled people in holiday-themed attire, awkward goodbyes with a lot of meaningful glances? Christmas party went well, I assume.”

“If this is your way of fishing for a good rating, it’s probably not gonna go well for you.”

“Listen, honey,” and at this, the driver turns around, fixing Emma with a stare and a very serious expression. She’s wearing a Santa hat, which somehow makes this even more compelling. “Trust me when I say this comes from a lot of love and experience, from one member of the hometeam to another. It ain’t ever gonna just be casual. There’s some deep stuff here. When you look at each other the way you two just did, _and_ stick long pauses in your seasons greetings, it’s not casual.”

“I’m sorry, what does that--”

“Consider this the best advice anyone is ever gonna give you. Check yourself before you wreck yourself.” 

“You stole that from Ice Cube.”

“And I’m stealing this from Snoop Dogg by way of a feature on Dre’s track - still waters run deep. If she’s not saying anything, it’s probably because there’s a whole damn ecosystem of emotion in there.” Santa Uber shrugs, turns back to the wheel. “I’m just saying, you may be in for a world of pain if you two aren’t up front about your feelings.”

“Trust me when I say we are not in a position to do that.”

“Is she your boss or something?”

Emma stalls, chugging her water. “I mean, it’s not, like, a direct supervision kind of thing--”

“Oh, sweet summer child. You’re schtupping the _boss_?” Santa Uber laughs. “You need more help than I alone can offer. You need to turn to a god of some kind, or Satan herself.”

“Dude, I’ll be fine.”

“Tell me right now, and answer me honestly: Do you miss her?”

“In general?”

“Right now, since she’s left the car. Do you wish you were with her?”

Emma pretends to have to think about this question, even though the obvious answer is _fuck yes, of course, I would crawl on my knees through a sea of broken glass to watch her do her laundry, etc._ “I mean, I don’t know.”

Santa Uber slams on the breaks a little too enthusiastically. “Your pants are on fire, my friend.”

“ _Fine,_ whatever. Yes. Yes, I miss her right now.” Coincidentally, they are now outside of Emma’s building. It turns out Emma lives a mere three blocks over from Regina. That will be...a whole thing, she’s sure. “This has not been terribly helpful. I am not rating you five stars.”

“Oh, you will.” And Santa Uber turns to her with a particularly knowing smile. “When it’s time for you to face the truth, you will. They always do. Don’t forget your complimentary candy cane. Happy holidays, my hopeless friend.”

“I am _not_ hopeless,” Emma mutters to herself, taking the stairs down to her door, an actual hopeless person who is hopelessly into Regina Mills.

 

 

 

 

The next morning, there’s a missed call on her phone from an unknown number, and two very insistent text messages. The first she knows exactly how to answer:

 

 

 

 

And the second is from Regina Mills. Asking her if she'll meet her for brunch at their local spot.

Super casual, like.

 

 

 

 

“So, this isn’t very casual.”

Regina appears to be avoiding eye contact, instead concentrating very hard on slicing the sugar-dusted fruit that is piled on her waffle. “What isn’t casual about a shared brunch, Miss Swan?”

“Uh, everything?”

“I read in the New York Times Style Magazine that brunch was, in fact, the most casual meal that one could share with another person.”

Emma stabs at her pancake. “I’m pretty sure it’s implied in the whole eating breakfast together that you also woke up together.”

“Did you or did you not wake up in your own bed this morning, Miss Swan?”

“I mean, considering the things we do have yet to take place in an actual bed--”

“And this is not breakfast. It’s brunch.”

Emma snorts. “Brunch is literally just _gay_ breakfast. That’s it.”

This appears to stump her brunch companion, who frowns into her bite of waffle. They are sitting at the table by the window, just as Regina had promised, and Emma had only changed her outfit three times this morning before walking the three blocks in the snow, stopping in front of the cafe to see the brunette sitting in the huge front windows, sipping her coffee. 

“Fuck,” Emma had whispered, breath pooling in front of her, knowing that she could probably spend another hour standing out in the cold, taking in the way this woman lifted a mug to her lips, observing the gentle movement of her fingers on a spoon. Which she acknowledges is probably a little creepy without context, and the context itself is what she’s trying not to actually acknowledge at all. The context is the whole damn problem.

“Fuck, fuck, _shit_ , fuck,” she continued to whisper, forcing herself up the steps to the door, forcing all those messy goddamned feelings down to the pit of her stomach. Regina had looked up from the table in the window, smiled at Emma, and that was fucking it. Donezo, goodbye, please collect your gift baskets at the exit. Emma was toast.

And now she is sitting here eating pancakes, which Regina had mentioned with the quickest of smirks after last night’s twenty questions. Regina’s eating a massive concoction of fruit and waffles and strawberry coulis, and Emma is attempting not to stare at what this woman considers to be weekend wear.

Chiefly, the cashmere sweater with designer jeans that definitely total up to more than Emma’s monthly rent, but who’s counting? Regina looks up at Emma, cocks her head.

“What are you thinking?”

“I was thinking that it’s crazy to be this turned on by someone wearing a sweater and ankle-length pants.”

At this, Regina’s cheeks flush red, and she occupies herself with her waffle again. 

“You don’t need to flatter me, Miss Swan.”

“I’m not flattering you, I don’t _need_ to flatter you. From your choice in jeans, you clearly already know what you’re working with.”

Another blush and smile from Regina. _Two for two, Swan, not bad at all, ya fuckin’ stud._

“I have Christmas shopping to do after this,” Regina says, matter-of-factly and somehow still loaded as all heck. “What are you doing today?”

Emma has to try not to grin at this fairly obvious invitation. “Nothing much. Playing it casual, probably. Just doing casual stuff that casual people do.”

A wry smile from Regina. “Sounds very compelling, Miss Swan.”

“Oh, it is. _Fascinating_ stuff.”

“I don’t suppose you’d be interested in doing this so-called casual stuff with someone else?”

Emma smiles innocently. “I thought that’s what we were doing, Regina. After all, nothing says ‘casual fuckbuddies’ like holiday shopping.”

Regina nearly chokes on her waffle. “Touché, Miss Swan.”

 

 

 

 


	9. FWD: come to my moms holiday party bitch

 

 

 

 

So Emma does probably the riskiest, stupidest thing she could possibly do given her current emotional situation. She spends the day with Regina.

Because what begins as Emma very firmly saying at brunch that she’ll only walk partway into downtown with her evolves into hours upon hours of increasingly wonderful moments. And oh, how they just slay her:

 

 

 

 

Emma getting Regina a flat white coffee to go. Emma’s hands getting cold, and Regina letting her cup the coffee with freezing palms while placing her own mittened fingers over Emma’s.

So fucking casual, right?

 

 

 

 

The women selling mistletoe from their flower stands giving Emma a knowing wink and promising a good deal.

“Interesting sales technique,” Regina says, leaning towards Emma.

“Awfully forward of them.”

“You’d think they were implying something.”

“Why, do I come across as the kind of person who’s seen you naked?”

An elbow to the side. But Regina does pause for a while at the flower stand, hand hovering over those sprigs of mistletoe, and Emma has to hold her breath until they finally step away.

Not like she needs that kind of excuse. Not that they’d need any excuse, period. But it’d be the thought behind the gesture that might really destroy her.

Because it’s all so goddamned casual, of course.

 

 

 

 

“How old is Henry?”

This from in front of a toy store, pausing at the window display.

“12,” Regina says, and when she smiles, it’s not about Emma. “But he has the interests of a 65 year old bachelor.”

Emma snorts. “What, does he collect stamps or something?”

Regina only lifts her eyebrows. Emma balks. 

“He _does_ collect stamps?”

“I got him a binder for them last year.” Regina gives her a bit of a challenging smile. “He also enjoys superheroes and classifying reptiles, if that gives you hope for his being socially well-adjusted.”

“He’s not homeschooled or something, right?”

Regina snorts. “No, Miss Swan. He interacts with other children on a daily basis.”

“Hey, just checking. Those preteen years can be rough for a kid with a stamp collection.”

“When you meet him, you’ll see that he does just fine.”

 _Oh._

“I’ll...keep that in mind.”

Sure, because that’s just so casual, isn’t it Ms. Mills?

 

 

 

 

By the late afternoon, Emma’s started to be seized by the impulse to grab Regina’s hand at crosswalks, and that’s just...not...good.

“I should probably head home,” she says, aware that she has nothing to do tonight except watch _Die Hard_ by herself and answer Ruby’s texts about what she should wear to her family’s Christmas party tomorrow.

“Oh,” Regina says, and okay, she’s probably just reading into it, but there’s a little bit of disappointment in her tone. Actually, a _lot_ of disappointment, as she’s frowning, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. “Well, it’s been very nice.”

“Very _casual_ ,” Emma says, smirks, even though there’s a lot more there than just amusement.

Regina raises an eyebrow, still frowning. “I didn’t see us ordering our headstones today, Miss Swan.”

“Yeah,” and she sighs, shrugs. “I’m sorry I keep teasing you about it.”

“It’s fine.” Regina reaches out, takes Emma’s hand and maybe it’s because it’s something she’s been thinking about all day but Emma just about freezes. “I’m sorry if this is confusing for you.”

“Confusing? For me? What could possibly be confusing about it?” Emma attempts her most nonchalant throat-clearing. “I mean, I’m young, I like sex. I like...not having to make small talk at a weekly date night. I like not having to feel like I need to use Tinder or OkCupid or whatever to get my rocks off. I should be...I should think this is really great, right?”

“And do you think this is really great?”

“Yeah,” Emma says, and it’s only a half-lie. “Sure.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Miss Swan,” and Regina kisses her. It’s the last thing she does before she steps back into the crowd, and leaves Emma standing there, wondering what exactly she’s supposed to do with all of this.

All of this...casual, right. Right? _Right?_

 

 

 

 

But there isn’t a terrible lot of time to process, because she has to spend the next day at her Christmas tradition of the past few years, which is accepting Ruby’s family’s semi-pity-fueled invitation to their holiday party.

“Okay, let me apologize ahead of time for whatever insane shit my mother says to you.” They’re standing on the front step of Ruby’s family home, a massive brick McMansion in the suburbs. Ruby has yet to reveal what she’s got under that pea coat, but since her personal tradition is wearing the most scandalous thing she can find in order to shock and horrify her mother, Emma can only imagine. The Santa hat really ties it all together.

Emma rubs at the arm of her green sweater, which she had considered festive, but now might be a little frumpy. “It’s cool, whatever. I just appreciate the free food and booze, honestly.”

Ruby gives her a one-over, sighs. “God, you look even gayer than last year. Here.” She hands her a bright pink Santa hat. “Put this on. It doesn’t look like you stole it from a middle-aged man, unlike the rest of your outfit, and it might distract my mother from your alternative lifestyle.”

“I wore a tie the first year I came over and she still tried to convince me that I could get a man if I wore more eyeshadow.”

“See, and you wonder why I turned out so twisted? My childhood was a gourmet recipe for hot mess non-functioning adult.” Ruby groans as she rings the doorbell, adjusting her hat again.

The woman who opens the door beams between the two of them. “Ruby! And you brought Emma. It is so wonderful to see my two little Mary Tyler Moores.” She pulls them into an incredibly stifling double hug, Emma’s cheek going directly into the ornately beaded holly berries of Mrs. Lupine’s chest. 

Emma attempts her most polite smile, holding up the wine she made Ruby pick out this morning. “I brought wine, Mrs. Lupine.”

“Aren’t you just _darling_? You know you can call me Denise.” She turns to her daughter. “Ruby, are you doing something different with your hair?”

Ruby shrugs, huffing like a teenager. “I don’t know, mom. Probably.”

“Well, it’s certainly _interesting_. I don’t know if I’d do it myself, but I’m not as _daring_ as you are.” She blinks a few times, and then returns her beaming smile to Emma. “You gals come in here and meet the other guests. Ruby, no one likes a Sulking Sally, especially not a man looking to start a healthy family.”

Ruby rolls her eyes as they step into the television-worthy foyer. “Christ, she makes me want to do heroin.”

 

 

 

 

“So, Emma.” Ruby’s mother leans across the counter, smiling that classic suburban mother smile. “Ruby tells us that you haven’t found that special someone yet.”

Behind her mother, Ruby is making disgusted faces while pouring a crystal glass full of vodka. Emma shrugs. “Uh, yeah...I guess I haven’t.”

“Well, let me tell you. We have the most lovely neighbors, and their son is just the most charming--”

“ _Mom_.” Ruby wields one of the polished cocktail forks. “Emma is _gay_. I have told you this, like, nine billion times.”

“Okay, okay,” her mother says, waving her hand in the air. She looks at Emma, narrowing her eyes as she smiles. “But keep an open mind.”

“Keeping an open mind is how she got gay, mom.”

“Uh,” Emma clears her throat. “That’s not actually how--”

The doorbell rings.

“I’ll get that. You girls make yourselves comfortable. Ruby, there’s more wine in the kitchen.”

“Thank _Satan_ ,” Ruby mutters, grabs Emma and drags her towards the other room. “I think a bottle each and we’ll be solid for dinner, right? Or do you want to do cocaine?”

Emma raises an eyebrow. “You have cocaine?”

“I’m pretty sure I stashed some in my childhood bedroom the last holiday I had to spend here.” Ruby pauses to think. “You know what? Never mind, that’s gone. Entire bottle of wine it is!”

 

 

 

 

Emma has been to four of these parties since becoming friends with Ruby, and they somehow continue to grow more ridiculous with each year. Emma’s own childhood Christmases were pretty sparse affairs, typical foster kid stories that she’s refrained from using to get pity sex over the years, although she _could _if she was slightly less moral, but the Lupine Family Christmas Party is a parody of the American suburban experience. Ruby’s upper middle class childhood home is turned into room after room of overpriced holiday decorations, slightly begrudging catering staff with platters of seafood and tiny sandwiches, and alcohol. So much alcohol. Oh, and single people. Lots of single people.__

__Because the not-so-secret intention of Denise Lupine’s holiday soiree is to pick out her daughter’s future husband. And, if she’s lucky, make a few other matches in the evening, which has, in the past, attempted to include Emma._ _

__Emma’s halfway through a miniature sausage when Denise swoops in, some poor frightened-looking young man in her vice grip._ _

__“ _Emma_ ,” she chirps, smile like a weapon. “There you are. This is Philip. Philip’s father owns stock in computers. Emma, you work on computers, don’t you?”_ _

__Philip waves awkwardly, as he is currently being physically shoved in her direction by Denise’s alarmingly strong arm. Emma attempts a smile that communicates her extreme sympathy for the situation._ _

__“So,” Philip says, shuffling from one foot to the other in his chinos and desert boots. “Denise said you work on computers.”_ _

__“Uh, sort of, it’s more that I--”_ _

__“ _Hey,_ ” Ruby has suddenly appeared, sticking a vodkatini into the middle of them and giving Philip a glare. “She doesn’t play for your team, homeslice.”_ _

__Philip blinks. “Sorry?”_ _

__“She isn’t about that life. She doesn’t like sausage, she is not a sausage kind of gal.”_ _

__Emma is eating another mini sausage at this moment, which she awkwardly tucks into her pocket instead. Philip stares between the two of them, continuing to look confused._ _

__“I’m really sorry. What are you trying to say?”_ _

__Emma sighs. “She’s saying that I’m--”_ _

__“A _huge_ lesbian. The hugest. An entire softball team worth of gay in here,” Ruby says, slapping Emma on the shoulder. “So do not waste your time. Move on to greener pastures, you feel me?”_ _

__“Uh, sure.” Philip takes gingerly takes a few steps back, keeping his eye on Ruby as if he expects her to pull a knife on him. “Thanks for the, uh...heads up.”_ _

__Ruby slurps her vodkatini, giving him the evil eye. “Mom probably told him you were just shy around men.”_ _

__“Honestly, dude, I really don’t care if I get hit on. I’m just here for the free food.”_ _

__Ruby shakes a dramatic fist. “But it’s the _principle_ of it. She thinks she can just shove unwilling penises at unwilling vaginas, it’s tyrannical.” She downs the rest of her cocktail, squeezes the olive between her teeth. “This is why my therapist makes such good money.”_ _

__

____

 

 

 

 

It isn’t ten minutes before Denise has brought another wide-eyed dude with a topknot over to Emma, now stuffing her face with spinach dip.

“Emma, this is John.”

“She’s _gaaaaaaaay_!” Ruby shouts from across the room. When Emma finds her on the other side of the crowd, Ruby lifts a glass of acknowledgement while doing a shot.

 

 

 

 

This one Denise seems to have even more of a determined grip on, spinning him away from another conversation in order to pull him towards Emma.

“Emma, my darling girl, you will not _believe_ what Adam does for a living--”

“ _She’s bangin’ chicks!_ ” Ruby yells, seemingly from the other room.

 

 

 

 

“Emma, sweetheart, let me introduce you to Naveen--”

“ _Massively gay irreversible homolady!_ ”

Denise spins, unable to locate her daughter. Emma spots Ruby ducking under the catering staff, two drinks in either hand.

 

 

 

 

It’s another hour before Emma can sneak out onto the back patio, only to discover she’s not the only one with that idea. There’s already a man in a leather jacket out there about to light up, shivering as he pushes his hair back. Emma sighs.

“Please tell me you have another cigarette. I will give you five dollars for a cigarette at this point.”

He turns, smiles conspiratorally. “Actually, this is not tobacco. I mean, there’s some tobacco mixed in there, but it’s a bit greener overall.” 

“Oh, shit. You’re on the naughty list, then.”

He snorts. “If I’m going to be peddled off to the highest bidder this evening, then I’d prefer to be baked, yes.”

“I feel you.”

“I’m Flynn,” he says, passing her the spliff. “And ‘tis the season for sharing, yo.”

“You have no idea how much I appreciate that.” When she exhales, she knows she’s grinning. “I’m Emma.”

“Oh, shit. I’ve heard about you. I think someone was yelling about how gay you are earlier.”

She shrugs, spreads her hands. “Yep, that’s me. So gay that it needs to be announced loudly by outside parties.”

“Somehow I feel like that has not stopped Denise.”

“Oh, absolutely not. I haven’t even mentioned the fact that I’m off the market to her, but I don’t think that would keep her from trying to get me a special man friend.” She takes the spliff back, extremely grateful for the rising calm.

He raises an eyebrow. “So you’re not single?”

“I’m...” She makes a wiggling gesture with her hand. “ _Eh._ ”

“One of those, huh?”

“If we were Facebook relationship kind of people, and we are definitely not, it’d be an ‘It’s Complicated’ for sure.”

“Is she worth the complication?”

Emma sighs. “I think so.”

“Is it a friends with benefits kind of thing?”

“More like...coworker with benefits. Or, to be perfectly honest, boss with benefits.”

He coughs, sputtering. “Dude. _Dude_.”

“I know.” She sighs, pushes her face into her hands as she passes the spliff back. “It’s a whole thing.”

“You need to talk to some weed about it.”

“I thought that’s what I was doing.”

Flynn inhales, narrowing his eyes. He blows a perfect smoke ring. “Right now, you’re just meeting the weed. Getting to know it, maybe asking about its job, its kids. But we’re gonna have a serious conversation with this kush about your fuckbuddy problems, okay?” He nods, answering his own question. “Okay.”

 

 

 

 

“And then she just kissed me and left me there and it’s like, okay, that’s fine, but why? Why spend the day with me and go to some cutesy-ass brunch with me if you want me to just bang you at work when you feel like it?”

“You like her.” Flynn leans in, lifting a finger. “You _like_ like her.”

“Duh. This is my problem, Flynn. We know that my problem is double liking her.”

“What’s this lady’s name?”

“Regina.”

“Derived from the Latin for queen, huh.”

Emma snorts. “She’s a queen in a lot of ways. Shockingly not a pillow queen, which is a pleasant surprise. Not that we have ever done it in a bed, or anywhere that involved a pillow.”

“She’s afraid of intimacy.”

“Obviously not. I have literally seen every crevice of that woman, and you wanna know the crazy part? I have yet to see a part of her that isn’t gorgeous. I’m not kidding. It’s insane.”

“Nah, not the physical kind. She doesn’t want you all up in her headspace and her heartspace and probably her homespace, too.”

“Oh.” Emma sighs. “You’re the second person to say that to me in the last twenty-four hours, you know that?”

“Then it’s probably true.” Flynn magically produces another spliff from his coat. “I told you that the weed would know.”

One of the patio doors opens, and Ruby spills out. She literally spills out, just about landing face first in the snow. When she sees Emma and Flynn, she grins, recovers her wine bottle, and holds up a now-empty cocktail glass, its contents somewhere in the backyard.

“Merry happy, mommy issue day,” she announces, and then drinks straight from the wine bottle.

 

 

 

 


	10. RE: Corporate Retreat Schedule Reminder

 

 

 

 

“They say the third Tuesday of the year is the worst day of the year.”

Emma sighs, turning to the other occupant of the elevator. “You said that about last Monday, too.”

Ruby shrugs, attempting to do her eyeliner in the mirrored walls of the elevator. “I mean, I’m not _wrong_. But hey, at least you’ve got next week to look forward to, right? Have you bought a bikini yet? Or like...” Ruby gives Emma a one-over. “...Trunks? Are you a swim top and trunks kind of gay? I feel like you could go either way. You’re, uh, _bi-swim-ual_.”

“Horrible co-opting of sexual identifiers aside, what are you talking about?”

“The corporate retreat, doofus.” A slight bump causes Ruby’s wing to reach from eye to hairline, and she lets out an animalistic shriek. “Someone is paying in blood for this.”

And Emma’s stomach drops back down the five floors they’ve just climbed.

 

 

 

 

  


 

 

 

 

And continues to drop as both Mary Margaret and Ruby spend the day emailing her outfits that they consider “appropriate for tropical weather but still professional”. In Mary Margaret’s opinion, this is something like a patterned khaki sack with arm and leg holes. Ruby goes in another direction by insisting Emma wear nothing but swimwear and a see-through robe for the entirety of the retreat, which is a predictable suggestion from her, nothing new there.

“I’m just saying,” Ruby says over lunch, stabbing at her fruit salad enthusiastically. “If there was ever an excuse to wear flip-flops and the sure signs of a Brazilian to a company meeting, this is it.”

“No one will take me seriously.”

“No one takes you seriously anyway. But listen, I was falling asleep to this nature documentary last night and it’s all about establishing dominance. It doesn’t matter what you wear, if you’re feeling threatened, go pluck a banana or pineapple from the nearest tropical plant, and eat it seductively while maintaining eye contact with everyone in the room.”

“I’m going to ignore you now.”

Mary Margaret raises her eyebrows, tucking into her ethically sourced quinoa. “I think I’ll join you, Emma.”

“If that doesn’t work, put your genitals on display and start something called ‘the silverback whoop’, which I guess is when you--”

Emma forgets both of them, and instead stares at her inbox, empty.

She assumes Regina will be there. She _knows_ Regina will be there. She just doesn’t know why this should make Emma, a woman who has seen Regina in many states of undress, including those states in which she is moaning Emma’s name like a prayer and clutching at her as she orgasms, feel like possibly climbing under desk and vomiting into a basket for a few hours. 

Because Regina makes her nervous now. Every gorgeous inch of this woman, every throbbing grabbing pulsing shaking inch of this woman makes Emma Swan very nervous.

 

 

 

 

But there’s a reason for this.

 

 

 

 

Consider, for instance, the first day back after the new year:

Mary Margaret in her new all-pink pastel cape and beret ensemble, humming a chipper tune as she just about skips into the elevator. Emma trudging behind, a dark cloud of un-morning-person attitude hanging over the venti-sized black coffee sloshing in her hand.

“Hold that, please,” a familiar voice says, and suddenly there’s a familiar hand (a little _too_ familiar, if Emma’s ladyparts have anything to say about it) pressing between the closing doors, and Regina Mills steps into the elevator. She’s not terribly well dressed for the snow and the cold, only a scarf and wool coat over that black sheath dress Emma recognizes from previous attempts to remove it from its wearer in as suave a motion as possible, and her cheeks are flushed red at their peaks, the tip of her nose pink. Emma has to look at the ground to hide her smile, the quick intake of breath. Luckily, the only other occupant of the elevator is Mary Margaret, who probably wouldn’t recognize the mating of two elephants if they were doing so in the remains of her living room, so she’s not terribly worried.

Regina glances at Emma quickly, wordlessly, and then back to concentrating on the removal of her gloves. A pro.

“So Emma,” Mary Margaret beams up at her coworker. “How were your holidays? Do anything special?”

And Emma, of course, cannot possibly mention what’s on her mind at this time, being the hours she spent in the company of the person to her right, a person she is supposed to be pretending to not know, but oh, the only thing playing in her brain right now is the sound of Regina groaning as she climbs on top and rides --

“Not much.” Emma fiddles with her beanie. “Same old, you know how it is.”

She chances a look at Regina, but the executive gives nothing away, her expression nothing more than a cool slight smile.

“Did Ruby end up taking you to her party? Her mother is _so_ nice and sweet, I really wish Ruby would take after her more.” Mary Margaret smooths out her cape with her pom-pom’ed mittens. “I really wanted to go but I know I’m not allowed to anymore because of David. Singles only, what a silly rule. Anyway, I bet you met some nice people at least! Anyone cute? Ruby said there were some hotties this year.”

There’s a slight shifting to Emma’s right, Regina running her hand through her hair. Her lip has curled slightly, just at that incredible scar of hers. Emma has to look away again, bite down on her own lip to keep from grinning. _Jealousy, Ms. Mills? Not terribly professional of you._

When the door pings, Mary Margaret skips out first, as if floating on the very goodness of her pure heart, and then Emma drags her feet, still not quite ready to leave the other woman’s company.

“Excuse me,” comes a voice behind her. Regina is holding out a black glove. “I think you dropped this.” 

She most certainly did not drop this glove which does not belong to Emma Swan anyway.

“Uh, thanks,” and Emma takes it from her, feels the squeeze of Regina’s hand around her fingers, sees the sudden and altogether wicked little smirk, and then the doors close.

 

 

 

 

And later, when she is returning the same black glove, she has further proof of her doom:

“I saw your name on the email for the retreat next week.”

This when Regina is at her desk, and Emma’s just stopping by, something she’s been doing lately, under any myriad of semi-ridiculous half-baked excuses. And this is probably the worst symptom of this shift in Emma’s feelings, something absolutely terribly horribly _dangerous_. They are meeting outside of sexual encounters. Regina Mills, formerly adherent to her all important Reverse Christian Grey Sex List, now invites Emma to drop by and talk. And not the type of talk reserved for 2 am Tinder messages, but normal talk. How was your day talk. Can I have the other half of your sandwich talk. If one more person tries to sign me up for their child’s wrapping paper fundraiser I will go out of my way to fire them talk.

“Uh, yeah,” Emma says, leaning against the doorway. “Gold selected me.”

“Good for you, then. I was unaware you were a team leader.”

“I’m not? Strictly speaking, I wasn’t exactly his first choice. But I guess I’m good enough for this free beach party or whatever.”

“Excuse you,” Regina says, raising an eyebrow. “This is a very serious corporate retreat for improving morale and building a sense of company purpose.”

It’s Emma’s turn to look skeptical. “Seriously?”

Regina snorts. “Of course not. Everyone’s there for the alcoholic yoga seminars and seeing their coworkers half-naked. I’d like to think it’s not a complete waste of a long weekend, but I am not naive. The one thing we can say is it does boost morale, at least for those people lucky enough to spend their weekend drinking on a beach and tanning in bikinis.”

“Is that what you’ll be up to, then?” Emma grins, arms folded across her chest. She drums her fingers across a forearm that knows what it’s doing. “Drinking in a bikini? Doesn’t seem like the type of business conduct expected of an executive director.”

Regina takes a sip of her coffee - the same flat white that Emma dropped off a few minutes ago, just because - and smirks. “Wouldn’t you love to know, Miss Swan.”

“Just wondering if I have something to look forward to, that’s all.”

“I guess you’ll have to patient then.” Regina unbuttons a single button on her blouse, pulls on the pendant of her necklace without breaking eye contact with Emma. “I’m sure you can use your imagination in the meantime.”

“Am I imagining this?”

Regina unbuttons one more button, revealing her black bra and the multitudes they contain. She raises a single eyebrow when Emma shifts and takes a step closer, and shakes her head. “You have to go back to work, Miss Swan. I’ve kept you for too long.”

Emma groans. “I’m not even working on anything important--”

“Even the smallest tasks at Brooketech are important.” Regina gets to her feet, bending over the desk and shifting up her skirt while doing so. This reveals the fact that she is wearing her lace garters, and _fuck_ , Emma groans again.

“Oh, come _on_ \--”

“Now, Miss Swan. Back to work.”

Emma bites down on her lip, very reluctantly stepping back to the door. “But it seems like there’s some work to do up here.”

Regina laughs, running a hand through her hair, and even this gesture is enough for Emma’s entire body to throb like a single nerve. “Nice try. I’m working on a solo project today, actually. I’ll be taking care of this myself.”

“You know, this is going to seriously affect my productivity. I don’t know how you expect your employee to concentrate when she knows that only a few floors above her, this shit is going on.”

“It’s curious you’re claiming to only be able to focus on one thing at a time, since I thought you’d already proven you were _very_ good at multitasking.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?” Regina pulls her skirt back down, settling into her chair again. That blouse remains open, though, and Emma doesn’t really need to see much more to be completely unraveled by this scene. “Can I give you a bit of professional advice? From the perspective of someone trying to advance your career.”

Emma shrugs, still biting down on her lip. “Sure.”

“You should work as hard as you fuck me.”

And so much for that composure. “Shit.”

“Very, _very_ hard, Miss Swan.”

Emma swallows hard, nods slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I can do that.”

 

 

 

 

Emma gets a text around lunchtime. A photo, actually, of those same garters working very hard. A few minutes later, another photo, of a finger pulling open a mouth, resting precariously on a full lower lip, the color of wine, and a neck whose taste Emma knows far too well, and the cleavage that she has willingly promised to die upon many, many times.

 _A reward for hard work._ says the message, and Emma has to go get a glass of cold water.

 

 

 

 

Ruby’s sitting on the end of Emma’s bed, watching her attempt to close a suitcase and offering very little in terms of help. She sips the prosecco she brought over, skipping a glass and going straight to the bottle.

“Do I need all these outfits?” Emma groans, sitting on the suitcase as she tries to zip it. “This seems like overkill.”

“Did you or did you not invite me over for my fashion expertise?”

“Actually, you just showed up at my front door an hour ago, saying you were going to change my life.”

“On a spiritual level, you sad sack existence was calling to me, which was an invitation. So here I am. Changing your life with my fashion expertise.” Ruby runs down her handwritten list made after digging through Emma’s closet and pulling out what she considered ‘basic fucking essentials of hotness, stupid.’ “I would never lead you astray, padawan.”

“I mean, I’m only there for five days. This is like fifteen outfits.”

“Um, hello? You need to be prepared. You’ve got every base covered now - you’ve got ‘sexually active sports lesbian’ for when you have to do physical activities, you’ve got ‘soft butch Bette Porter’ for formal meetings. And most importantly, you have ‘tropical KStew,’ which will inevitably lead to sex on the beach.”

“Right,” Emma says, tries to laugh a real ‘casual’ laugh that is not an ‘I’m already fucking the boss and sex on the beach is probably on the menu’ laugh. “That’s not happening.”

“Honestly bitch, and I mean this in the most respectful way possible, if you don’t take advantage of this incredible opportunity to have a romantic island adventure with your Tinder match, I will fly down there and pelt you with coconuts myself.” Ruby leans closer, prosecco swinging dangerously. “Which means you need to get up in _her_ coconuts.” Ruby grabs her own chest, demonstrating the squeezing technique she’s referring to. “Boobs,” she says. “I’m talking about her boobs, Swan.”

“Gotcha.”

“I’ve done most of the work for you with these outfits. Now it’s up to you to hustle to suck on that pineapple.” Ruby narrows her eyes. “And by pineapple, I mean--”

“Oh my god, I _know_.” Emma fakes retching. “Calm down.”

“Look, I’m just trying to prepare you for what you’ll need to do at this retreat. It will take everything you’ve got in that sinewy homosexual body of yours to pull this off, but I believe in you.” Ruby claps both of her hands on Emma’s shoulders. “You are gonna climb that palm tree and shake those--”

“ _Enough_ , seriously.”

 

 

 

 

And here’s the other thing, the slight wrench in this operation of the retreat and the whole thing between them and the progression of this relationship (relationship? is she calling it that now? is that crazy? is it super crazy?): Emma is terrified of flying. Emma is ‘puke in a bag for the entire flight’ levels of terrified. And while the whole ‘hiding a relationship during a corporate retreat’ is already a difficult and scary endeavor, she really, _really_ wishes it did not start and end with a flight.

 

 

 

 

The company has ordered a series of cars to pick everyone up at their homes to the airport, and since they’re in the same part of the city, Emma is inevitably sharing this car with Regina...and three members of the board. When she slides into the back of the limousine, facing Regina and two very serious looking men, she realizes she is the least dressed.

Both men are wearing ties under their likely expensive harrington jackets, and Regina’s in a dress (a dress?!) with her heels (her heels?!). Meanwhile, Emma is wearing ripped jeans, a beanie meant to hide the fact she slept on wet hair, and aviators. She is definitely not taking off the aviators.

The three men offer quick introductions, a few handshakes. Regina smiles at Emma, a million things contained in the particular angle of her mouth.

“Have you met Regina before?” This from one of the board members, a man who introduced himself as Walt.

“Not formally,” Emma says, maintaining eye contact with Regina, trying to keep a straight face. “I’ve been to some of her company-wide meetings, though.”

Walt smiles at this, nodding. “She’s a very inspiring presence, isn’t she? We’re lucky to have someone like her in charge. I think we could all learn a lot from Regina.”

Regina smirks, uncrossing and crossing her legs again. She continues to look at Emma, never breaking her gaze. “I think I could learn a lot from Miss Swan, actually. Being in my position doesn’t necessarily mean I’m the one in charge, especially not at Brooketech.”

Walt smiles again, none the wiser. “That’s why you’re a great leader, Regina. Getting in the trenches. Commanding from the bottom of the ladder.”

“Commanding from the bottom,” Regina repeats, raises an eyebrow that only Emma catches. “That’s a good way of putting it, Walt.”

Emma spends the rest of the ride attempting not to make eye contact with Regina, busy in ‘actual fucking business’ conversations, but oh, she may or may not glance over every once in a while. And when she does, the executive director of Brooketech most certainly meets her eye, and she most certainly smiles.

 

 

 

 


	11. FWD: RE: Business Class Upgrade

 

 

 

 

“Nice socks,” Regina whispers. This is when they are standing in line at the first security check, Emma’s sneakers in hand, her carry-on wheeling along behind her. The removal of her shoes revealed the fact she is wearing mismatched socks, one of which is covered in rainbow hearts.

Regina is holding her heels as if they were a completely purposeful accessory, as if the security line were actually the line for an exclusive expensive nightclub for hot important people and she totally belongs here, looking the part. Emma, meanwhile, has somehow ended up at the start of a long line of Brooketech employees, from the board members to Gold to some other executives she’s only seen in passing but certainly read whatever memo everyone besides Emma received to _not_ dress like a recent breakup victim buying tampons at Whole Foods.

“Thanks,” Emma says, shoving her things into a tray. “Didn’t imagine the entire board of directors would be here to see me being a complete tragedy, but I guess that was an oversight on my part.”

“That’s an awfully dramatic reaction to socks.” Regina rolls her eyes, smirking.

And of course Regina is _completely_ right - mismatched socks do not equal career-destroying humiliation. 

_That_ honor is reserved for when Emma has already passed through the body scanner, and is waiting for her carry-on to come out the other side. Because the luggage scanner begins beeping, and two more TSA agents are called over, and in front of the entire Brooketech board of executives among many, many others, Emma’s suitcase is flung open. From the dregs of said suitcase, the TSA agents pull out an unfamiliar pair of handcuffs, a length of rope, and what may or may not be a bottle of honey.

The agents look from the suitcase to Emma and back to the suitcase again. Emma wishes she’d paid attention in all those biology and physics classes because maybe, just maybe, the sheer horror her body chemistry is experiencing will allow her to jump into another dimension, dissolving her former self.

This, while hearing one of the many Brooketech employees waiting in the halted line to the body scanners stage whisper, “Good _grief_.”

For some Satan-known reason, Emma briefly makes eye contact with Regina, who appears to have had the blood drained from her body. Her eyebrows raised as high as humanly possible, she runs her tongue over her back teeth, meeting Emma’s gaze with the white fury of a dying archdemon, exhausting its final powers in an attempt to melt the puny human known as Emma Swan in a single unholy glare.

From what last well of strength she cannot possibly fathom has survived this cataclysmic event, Emma manages to whisper, “Those...are not mine.”

A latex gloved agent is cautiously lifting the handcuffs with the end of a pencil. “Ma’am, is this your luggage?” 

“Y-yes, but that’s not my--”

“Is your name Emma Swan?”

“No-- I mean, yes. Yes.”

“Can I see your identification again?” Another agent is patting her down, while Emma tries to remember the name of the planet she currently inhabits. Emma hands her passport over. The other agent reads the passport, reexamines the handcuffs, and then holds them up to her.

“These handcuffs are engraved with your name. And,” he flips the handcuffs over, “ _Congrats on the mile high club, Swanboat!_ See? Right here.”

_Ruby._

“I think, um...I think a friend put those in as a joke or something--”

The agent shrugs, throwing the handcuffs back in her suitcase. “Honestly, I don’t care what you people do on those filthy planes. That’s the stewardesses’ problem. I just can’t let you take this honey on board. No liquids. You think you can remember that next time you get in a TSA line?”

“Uh, yes. Yes, absolutely. I am _so_ sorry--”

“Next.”

 

 

 

 

Emma has pulled her beanie all the way down, aviators pushed all the way back. If she could also push her existence all the way into Hell, that would be excellent, take me Satan, etc. She is shoving her feet into her shoes, pretending the other occupant of the bench who has slipped her heels on in a way that is almost _sexy_ , damn her, doesn’t make her even more of a wreck. She’s hissing as quietly and ferociously as possible in a way to placate said occupant of bench. “That was a friend’s very _very_ poor attempt at a practical joke, obviously that is completely _presumptious_ and, like, _disrespectful_ , I would never--”

“Just make sure you don’t lose the key,” Regina says quietly, and then gets to her feet, walking off into the terminal. Emma doesn’t realize she is staring with her mouth open until Gold walks by and asks if she’s having an attack of some kind.

 

 

 

 

Emma spends the hour between entering the terminal and departure vacillating between confusing fear and confusing arousal. Why does Regina keep crossing and uncrossing her legs when she sits across from her at the gate, smoothing down her dress and licking her finger to turn the page of her book? Why does she want to hide under her chair but also present herself like a feast? Why did the server at the terminal TGIFridays ask for Emma’s ID and then ask if she was allergic to alcohol? The questions remain.

 

 

 

 

A more pressing question arrives when they actually board the plane, Emma taking care not to make eye contact with any of the other Brooketech employees who witnessed three distinctly sexual items pulled from her luggage, only to discover they are all seated together in the business section.

And who is Emma seated across the aisle from?

“Miss Swan, was it?” Regina leans across the aisle, smiling innocently. “You seem to be fidgeting. Are you alright?”

Emma sets her jaw, trying not to meet the executive director’s teasing smile with a little tease of her own. “Not a fan of flying,” she says, distracting herself with the auspicious business class legroom and swiveling chairs. “I kind of avoid it at all costs.” 

“Surprising from someone who makes friends so readily with the TSA.” 

And Emma doesn’t even catch herself before throwing Regina a look. Regina blinks once, twice, and then starts typing on her tablet. Emma decides that burying herself in SkyMall is better than burying herself in the conflicting imagery of being humiliated in front of her coworkers and handcuffing Regina Mills to a bedpost.

 

 

 

 

Somewhere over the southeastern United States airspace, a hand brushes Emma’s shoulder. This hand belongs to the executive director of Brooketech, who is currently walking up the aisle of the business class section to one of the business class bathrooms. She glances back only once, makes extremely brief eye contact with Emma, and then closes the curtain behind her.

_Oh, shit._

 

 

 

 

“Wow, would you look at the size of this bathroom? How fucking bougie is this shit, I mean--”

But Emma’s wide-eyed admiration for the amazement that is a large business class bathroom is put on hold for the finger now pressed against her lips. Regina is shaking her head, eyes narrowed as she whispers.

“Please be discreet, Miss Swan.”

“Uh, _who_ exactly invited their employee via shoulder tap to the airplane bathroom for a sexual encounter?” Emma hisses. “I’m pretty sure that’s Sexual Harassment Lawsuit 101, Ms. Mills.”

Regina rolls her eyes, but she’s already balling the front of Emma’s shirt in her first, teeth dragging across her bottom lip. “Don’t make me regret this terrible impulsive decision.”

“Again, _your_ decision.” Emma lets herself be pulled in, forehead knocking against Regina’s before she thinks, overthinks, and then _fuck it_ , goes in for the kiss.

 

 

 

 

“You didn’t bring those handcuffs, did you?”

“What? _Fuck, how are you doing that--_ oh. Uh, no. They’re in my carry-on.”

“You get a sexual invitation for a bathroom liaison and you don’t _bring_ the handcuffs with you? Why even bring them on the plane?”

“ _I_ didn’t put them in my suitcase--”

“You didn’t leave them in a trashcan at the airport either.”

“I mean, that just seems wasteful.”

“So is not bringing handcuffs to a mile high club meeting.” A sigh, in between muffled gasps. “I suppose we’ll have to -- _oh, right there_ \-- make use of them at the resort.”

“There’s rope, too, you know.”

“I haven’t forgotten... _god yes, right there, I’m so close._ ”

“Just bite down on my collar, you have to be quiet--”

“ _Fuck_ , Emma, Emma, _Emma_ \--”

 _Bang._ The room shakes, jerks, their bodies colliding uncomfortably with the wall. The plane hits turbulence and even though Emma is reminding herself that’s all it is, it’s turbulence, it’s normal, it’s _okay_ , the rational voice is gone and Emma’s breathing too fast, pulling her hand out from under Regina’s dress and clenching part of it in her fist.

“Emma?” Regina tries, softer, quieter, _sweeter_ , all the rough and raw of sex replaced by something tender, but Emma can’t move. She closes her eyes, shakes her head.

“Sorry,” she whispers. “I...” But instead of finishing, she winces into the next jerk of the plane. 

“ _Oh,_ ” Regina says, nodding with understanding. “It’s okay. Just breathe with me. In and out on my count, okay? You can do it.”

There’s a light palm on the back of Emma’s neck, a hand curled around her wrist. She follows Regina’s breaths, tries to focus on the cool touch of the other woman, the way she’s rubbing a circle into the back of Emma’s hand with her thumb, the way Regina looks at her and nods and there’s so much in those eyes, there’s so much and the plane is going to crash and she would have never told her that she’s actually--

“Emma? Babe, it’s okay--”

Emma blinks. Her breath is steady now, the fear releasing like steam from a vent. Regina closes her mouth tight suddenly, swallows, as if she’s realizing what she just said.

“Sorry,” she whispers. “That’s...it just came out. I just...I’m sorry. When we get off the plane and have time, we can talk about boundaries or terms or --”

“It’s okay,” Emma says. “It's actually very okay."

“Oh,” Regina’s hands are still protectively on Emma, her grip sure. When she looks up at her, she is not Executive Director at Brooketech. She is not Emma’s boss, Ms. Mills. She is Regina, who calls Emma ‘babe’ and cradles her when she is on the edge of the world and is definitely, absolutely casually not casual.

“I just need a minute.”

Regina’s bright red now, seemingly struggling for composure. She nods quickly, biting down on her lip. “That’s fine. That’s...more than fine. Do you want me to leave first?”

“Yeah,” Emma shrugs, but there’s a part of her that never wants them to leave this airplane bathroom. There’s a part of her that is ready to make an entire life in this airplane bathroom, to start a new nation based in the bathroom of this airplane’s business class, complete with political revolutions and endless state-approved lesbianism.

"I'm...sorry, again. For surprising you...me...with that."

Emma can feel the smile in spite of herself. "I'm sorry we joined the mile high club for sex _and_ panic attacks."

Regina's smirk is slower to come, but it's there, warm and sure. "And it only took nine minutes."

"Tell your seatmate you were sick."

"Tell yours that you caught whatever I have."

"I think I did."

And if Regina understands the meaning here, if that pause before she opens the door betrays her understanding...well. Emma doesn't need to know today. But maybe tomorrow.

 

 

 

 


	12. RE: FWD: Rooming List

 

 

 

 

Emma realizes about three seconds after departing the plane that a beanie was _not_ a good idea, considering they are now in a tropical climate and no matter how cold and snowy it is in New England, it is positive roasting in their current surroundings. 

“Holy balls,” she mutters, removing her hat and scratching messily at whatever horrendous situation is now on her head. If a few executives glance over, she doesn’t notice or want to notice.

Well, they already think she’s a nymphomaniac without a mirror. At this point, their expectations are so low that she can only impress them with normalcy from here on out. 

Emma is so distracted by this extreme heat situation that she doesn’t realize at first that Regina is standing further down the shuttle pickup area, changed as if by magic into a summer dress. She only notices because some dude in a pair of _white chinos_ nearly knocks her over with his rolling Louise Vuitton luggage set, and who does he make a beeline for, grinning like a fool? Regina Fucking Mills. And what does Regina do? She notices him and breaks out into a smile. For white chinos. _White chinos!_

“Regina,” White Chinos says, and Emma has to stop herself from very obviously lowering her sunglasses to glare the fuck out of this fella, who is using what is clearly a husky sexual tone. “I was hoping we’d run into each other.”

“Graham?” Regina is smiling _genuinely_ and laughing her husky sexual laugh and oh the fuck no _oh the fuck no_. “What are you doing here?”

“Brooketech snatched me up a month ago. I’m at the London office, can you believe it? You get bagged for the major position and I end up transferring a few months later. Life is crazy, isn’t it?” White Chinos is using a Fuck Me Voice if Emma, self-proclaimed queen of the Fuck Me Voice, has ever heard one. 

“Very crazy.” Regina’s smirking and Emma’s very confused by the fact that Regina’s current body language is nearly unreadable and _did he just put a hand on her forearm?_ Did he just rest his fingers on her forearm and inch up to her elbow? Oh, is he cupping her fucking elbow? Everyone knows the elbow is the ass of the torso! He is essentially cupping her ass! Are they seriously--

 _Aagh._ Emma only realizes in this minute that she was leaning so far forward that her suitcase has now shifted entirely underneath her, and if not for the person currently grabbing her by both arms, she would have fallen onto the curb.

“I’d say jetlag, but I don’t think we crossed any timezones.”

Emma finds herself looking up at a blonde with a beauty mark, one of her eyebrows raised. She gets to her feet, steadying herself on her suitcase while attempting to keep an eye on the Regina and White Chinos situation. Of course they seem to have disappeared for the time being, and here she is, technically in the arms of another woman. A woman who actually is...kind of a knockout, if she was not currently distracted by the other set of mommy issues in her life.

“Shit, sorry about that.”

“Don’t be.” The blonde isn’t smiling, but she’s not _not_ smiling either. “I’m assuming this is your first retreat, or you would have begged me to let an airport shuttle run you over.” She releases her grip on Emma’s biceps. “Nice arms, by the way.”

“Uh, thanks.” Emma is still trying to find out where Regina’s gone, but the shuttles are here and doors are opening and now every member of the Brooketech retreat is pushing their way to the vans. She gives up once someone’s taking her luggage, and slides into the van. The blonde slides in next to her, and finally she gets a smirk.

“I’m Helga. Talent. You’re a graphic designer, aren’t you?”

Emma laughs. “Sales.”

Helga raises an eyebrow at this. “Really? That’s certainly not what you give off.”

“What I give off? Can you not smell the printer ink and desperation?” She winces a little. “I don’t know if I should be insulted or not.”

“It’s a compliment. Most Sales people look like the soul has been sucked out their nostrils. You still have some spark. And a...creative appearance? That’s my nicest way of putting it.”

Emma gives her a look, but she’ll play along. “Okay, sure.”

“So you’re Lead Sales, then?”

“Nope.”

Helga continues to look bemused, her bemused-ness only increasing. “Oh, so you must be some _serious_ bigwig. Head of Sales?”

Emma snorts. “Head? I’m hardly the butt. The butt of Sales. Maybe even the butthole of Sales.” She notices the face the other woman is making and has to nod a few times to show she’s completely serious. “Honestly, I’m like ninth best in my department or something.”

“You’re kidding. Who did you screw to attend the retreat?”

If she’s honest, something at the base of her spine twinges in panic. “Why, what have you heard?”

“Good one.” Helga laughs, giving her a very obvious one over. “Funny _and_ cute. That’ll get you far here, you know.”

Oh, she definitely knows.

 

 

 

 

Speaking of getting far on her humor, looks, and ability to seduce the upper echelons of this company, not five minutes after she’s arrived at the resort - super fancy, in a real Basically Modern Colonialism kind of way - received her key, and waited in line for the elevator, someone slightly bumps into her. Not much of a surprise considering the crowd, but when she looks up and sees Regina a few feet away now, smiling serenely, she can’t help but smirk back. Regina’s hands are at her waist, half-hidden under the strap of her carry-on, but she’s subtly gesturing to Emma’s bag. Emma looks down, fishes in the front pocket, and sees the telltale envelope of a room key with a number written on it. When she looks back up, Regina is already making her way down the hall to the beach suites. 

Well, shit.

This is a good ‘well, shit’. The bad ‘well, shit’ is discovering the other occupant of her elevator is White Chinos. He glances over at her when they get in, probably taking in her disheveled appearance and making judgments, probably because he is probably a dick, and nods in acknowledgement.

“Are you here with Brooketech?” he tries, though there’s definitely an edge of doubt to his voice.

“Yep,” she says, because she is not going to be judged by someone wearing white chinos today.

“Graham Hunt,” he says, holding out a hand. She gives it the firmest, most intimidating shake she is capable of, and is shocked when he matches it. “Information Technology and Confidentiality.”

“Emma Swan,” she grunts, continuing to pump his hand. “I see you know Regina Mills.”

“Ah, yes. Regina.” His smile changes, and it gets all sexual at the corners and _blech_ and _whyyy_. “I used to work with her at our last firm. She is...well, she’s something, isn’t she?”

Still shaking his hand, still making direct eye contact, Emma clears her throat. “I’m actually working with her on a project right now.”

“Really? What department are you with?”

“Sales.”

“Really?” he repeats, and this only gets her to squeeze his hand harder. “That’s odd. What project is it?”

“It’s confidential.”

“It’s funny, as someone in Confidentiality, I didn’t think we currently had any projects that needed protected data or purpose--”

“I guess she just trusts me.”

“I don’t...that doesn’t make sense.” He wrestles his hand back from her, shakes it out slightly. “Hell of a handshake, Swan.”

She realizes she hasn’t blinked for a few minutes, but who’s counting. “So they tell me.”

The doors open, and he nods again, looking slightly more puzzled now. “I’ll see you around this weekend.”

“Definitely,” she says, and suppresses the urge to whisper “I’m watching you, buddy.” Instead she attempts to look as friendly as possible, which the elevator mirror reveals is only coming across as deranged.

 

 

 

 

Since they’ve arrived just after dinner, tonight is meant to be for settling in and sleeping before the real agenda begins tomorrow. After sufficiently going through her mini-fridge, watching the sunset from her balcony, showering with all the fancy freebies, changing into something less New England, and listening to the couple in the room below her fight about communication issues and his attachment to his mother, Emma decides it might be time to pay a visit to the Executive Director.

 

 

 

 

“God _damn_.” Because this room, being one of the beach bungalow suites, is worth a curse word or two. Even in the dying light of dusk, the kitchen and mini bar alone are something to behold. It would probably be something _else_ to behold if a particular person was also there, but Regina isn’t back yet and Emma decides she might as well settle in and surprise her.

Wouldn’t you know she’s not the only one with this particular plan?

She steps out of the kitchen of the suite and is greeted immediately by a high-pitched shriek, and the sight of a bearded man in literally nothing, straddling part of the couch. This prompts her to drop the miniature bag of gourmet white chocolate pretzels she found on the counter, spilling them everywhere, something that will later make her very angry, because she was really looking forward to those stupid gourmet pretzels, and by the time this fiasco is done, they have melted. Not that she’s above eating melted pretzels off the floor but--

“ _Emma_? What are you doing here?”

Graham, yes, _Graham_ , is standing in the middle of the suite, naked besides the pillow strategically clutched to his crotch.

“What am _I_ doing here?” She balks. “Dude, are you serious? What the fuck are _you_ doing here?”

“Oh god,” he says, all color drained from his face. “I must have made a mistake. I must have gotten the room numbers wrong. I’m so sorry, is this your room?”

“No.”

His look of horror begins to shift into a look of disbelief. “It’s not your room?”

“No, it’s not my room.”

“So you’re in...” His eyes narrow slightly. Clearly they’re going to talk their way around the obvious, sure. “You’re in someone else’s room.”

Emma has yet to move from her current mid-stride position. She blinks, realizing what he’s attempting to say. An entire conversation is about to happen with their eyes alone. “It appears that way, yes.”

 _Well, well, Miss Thang._ “And do you know whose room this is?”

 _Two can play this game, White Chinos._ “Yes, I do know whose room this is.”

 _Is that so, Sports Bra Enthusiast?_ “So you’re here in someone else’s room on purpose.”

 _I’m not going to say it, you preppy bag of dicks._ “I certainly am.”

 _Just say her name, you salesfloor trashcan._ “Whose room is it?”

 _Eat my fucking trashcan hole, you bleached teeth pubebeard._ “I’m sorry, this is very uncomfortable. I can go back into the kitchen and close the door if you’d like to put your clothes back on and leave.”

 _Clearly you’ve never fucked with the legal team, you half-assed account monkey._ “I’ll be honest, I feel a bit uncomfortable that you’re in someone else’s room.”

 _No, but I’ve fucked with the executive director, you slimy lizard peehole._ “Oh, I have permission.”

 _So have I, pancake tits._ “From personal experience, I can tell you that permission is not something legally protected by this company. In fact, it’s still major grounds for a sexual harassment lawsuit.”

“Says the man with a pillow over his penis right now.”

He looks down at the pillow, and then back up at Emma. “Touché. Look, I’ll put my clothes on and go as this has _obviously_ been a massive misunderstanding. I just want to make it clear that no one will know I was here, because no one will know that you are here. As I assume you have been fairly often for a while now.”

“Are you blackmailing me right now or--”

“I’ll get out of your hair.” And just like that, he’s skipped out of sight, returned sixty seconds later in pink pastel shorts and a white polo, and has hightailed it out the porch. She stands at the glass door, watching him highstep down the starlit beach, and sighs.

Well, that makes shit a whole lot more complicated.

 

 

 

 

About a half hour later, there’s the quiet beep of a key in the door, and the soft tap of heels in the other room of the suite. Emma’s sitting in the dark just inside the glass doors of the bedroom, listening to the steady beat of the tide, enjoying some of the sauvignon blanc that was sitting on the counter when she arrived, along with a note saying _Get started._ The lights flicker on, and she turns to see Regina, running a hand through her hair. When her eyes fall on Emma, her expression shifts into a smile.

“Hey.”

“Hi.” Emma raises her wine glass. Regina’s nose wrinkles when she smirks.

“I see you got my note.”

“I assumed by ‘get started’, you meant the wine.”

Regina settles onto the wicker chair next to her, slipping her heels off one by one. “Naturally. Wouldn’t want you to get started on anything I wouldn’t want to miss.”

Emma tries to keep her cool, but it’s sentences accompanied by looks like that one that really do make her lose said cool entirely. “I don’t recall any mentions of self-service in that contract you had me sign.”

“We might need to make an amendment.”

“So now I can’t come without you?”

“I don’t without you.”

Emma snorts. “That’s bullshit.”

Regina laughs, that cackle that seems to shake all the cobwebs off Emma’s shitty life. “It is, you’re right.” She leans closer, her voice lowering. “Would you like to know a secret?”

“When it’s being offered in that tone of voice, yes.”

“The night after you showed up late to that meeting, I thought about you.”

Emma smirks. “Really.”

“Yes,” Regina says, and she’s dragged her hand through her hair again, her thumb resting on her lip. “I wanted to make you curse for different reasons.”

“Fuck,” Emma whispers, because seriously. Seriously.

“Just like that,” Regina says, and turns off the lights before getting on her knees.

 

 

 

 

“Fuck,” Emma says, not whispering this time, but groaning, twisting her fingers and watching Regina writhe underneath her, almost jumps at the sudden gasp and stilted cry. “Shh,” she says, pressing her lips to Regina’s ear. “Don’t want the neighbors to hear.”

But Regina grabs at the back of her neck, buries her nails there. “Fuck the neighbors.”

“The neighbors are -- _fuck, you feel incredible_ \-- my boss.”

And in between soft gasps -- “I’m your boss.”

“You’re all -- _shit_ \-- my bosses.”

But she’s being pulled closer and there’s teeth biting down on her earlobe and it’s harder to think about keeping your affair a secret from your employer’s colleagues when it’s Just. That. Good.

 

 

 

 

Later, Regina lying on her stomach, Emma sitting against the headboard, sheets and other covers long discarded on the floor: Emma rubs at her wrist as she flicks her fingers, wincing.

“I’m going to get carpal tunnel, I swear.” 

Regina snorts into her pillow, and while Emma can’t technically see her expression now, she can only assume eyes are being rolled.

“From typing?”

“And fisting.”

Regina rolls over, smirking at her. “Both work-related injuries.”

“You think you’re very clever, Ms. Mills.”

“I would have to be to be the Executive Director, don’t you think?” That continually wicked smile, now softening slightly. “So, a bed.”

“That’s what they call these things, yes.”

A gentle hand comes flying in her direction. “You know what I mean, Swan.”

She catches the hand, plants a kiss on its palm. “Yeah, I know.”

“I thought your desk, floor, and wall technique were more than adequate. I was pleasantly surprised to learn your talents are even better suited for a bed.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, Ms. Mills.” Emma grins again, bites down on her bottom lip, but there’s something nagging at her and she is probably about to ruin this moment but she’s an idiot anyway and she’s stupid and -- “Do you know Graham Hunt?”

Regina gets up on her elbows, frowning. “What?”

“Graham Hunt. I met him in the elevator. He said he knows you.”

Regina’s expression is unreadable, even in the moonlight. “I worked with him at my last job, yes.”

“ _Just_ worked with him?”

Regina is now pulling a sheet back onto the bed and up to her chest, her brow furrowing. “What is this about, Emma?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It just seems weird to me that your former colleague would be waiting naked in your hotel room if you only ever worked together.”

“ _What_?” And now Regina is fully sitting up, her knuckles white on the edge of the sheet.

“Yeah, like an hour before you showed up, I came in here and the dude was wearing a fucking pillow, lounging on the couch. That’s either the craziest coincidence in the world, or a carryover from past behaviors.”

A thousand gears appear to be turning behind Regina’s eyes. “He had to have been mistaken.”

“Right. That’s what he said. A _massive_ mistake, I assume. Because you guys only ever worked together.”

“We...” Regina is now looking towards the porch, the wall, anywhere but Emma and this is not lost on the other woman. “Things did get a bit unprofessional between the two of us, I will admit that.”

Emma groans, covering her face with the nearest pillow. “Oh my god, are you serious?”

Regina shoots her a look. “What, and you have a lily white past?”

“My exes aren’t showing up at my business event with a fucking couch accessory over their bits, no!”

“He’s not my ex. We were never officially _dating_ , it was just sexual--”

And it’s all sort of clicking, in the worst possible way. “Are you _serious_?”

“Emma, really, it was just--”

“Fucking your employee without putting a label on it? The occasional sexual encounter in the workplace, leading to the climactic screw on the corporate retreat?” Emma gets to her feet, her stomach plummeting, ransacking the room for her clothing. “Do you always have a plaything at work or has it just been the last ten places you worked?”

Regina’s wincing, one hand stretched out to her as if looking for something, anything, to hold onto. “Emma, please keep your voice down.”

“Yeah, it would be a shame if the whole company knew you were a walking sexual harassment lawsuit.”

“Emma, _please_. It really wasn’t like that, and this time, it’s not like that, it’s so different. I don’t...I don’t know how to tell you--”

“That’s cool, I’ll save you the trouble.” She’s yanking up her jeans, pulling her tank on without a bra and not sure which bra is which and _fuck_ all of this, fuck it all and--

There’s a hand on her arm. Regina is standing naked behind her, her eyes wet. “Emma.”

“I have to go back to my room.”

“Just...” and Regina winces, like she doesn’t want to say it but she has to say it, and it’s clear that whatever good was growing is now temporarily stunted. “I’m sorry. I can explain, if you give me the chance.”

Emma sighs, trying not to look her in the eye. “I need some time.”

“That’s fine, absolutely,” she says, nodding. “Whatever you need.”

“And don’t even think about coming to my room, because I’m not telling you my room number.”

Regina looks guilty all of a sudden. “I technically have the rooming list.”

“Oh, come _on_.” Emma groans, throwing up her hands. “Well, don’t even think about looking up my room number and then coming to my room, whatever. I won’t be there anyway. This place has some gimmicky cheap tiki bar, right?”

“It’s actually quite upscale--”

“Fucking _hell_ ,” Emma moans, slides into her shoes, and leaves Regina alone.

In the hallway, she closes the door behind her, trying to be quiet, trying not to cry or scream or whatever it is she feels like doing right now.

“Emma?”

It’s Gold, his key in the door to his room. Emma sighs.

“I didn’t think you were in the bungalow suites,” he says. He’s in an oversized Hawaiian shirt, brightly patterned shorts, and a pair of Birkenstocks.

“Yeah,” she says, crossing her arms. “I was looking for the bar. Guess this isn’t the bar.”

“Oh,” he brightens, pointing down the hall. “Down there, take two lefts. Show them your Brooketech card and drinks are free.”

“Sounds dangerous,” she says, and in her current mental state, she means it. He waves, disappears into his room. In the silence of the hall, she tries very hard to convince herself that going back to her bed and sleeping is the best bet right now, but instead she finds herself walking down the hall and taking two lefts.

 

 

 

 


	13. ATTN: Safety at Corporate Retreats

 

 

 

 

Emma wakes up sprawled in bed, hair matted to one side of her face, Shaggy playing on tinny speakers somewhere in the room.

_Girl you’re my angel, you’re my darling angel--_

She raises her head, squints at the evil, evil sunshine. How dare it, honestly. The evil sunshine reminds her that she’s in bed, which is _not_ the last place she remembers being, not by a longshot. Last she remembers, she was downing a frozen margarita while a few hazy figures did a salsa around her, and someone chanted ‘ _chug chug chug_ ’, which may or may not have been meant for Emma.

Shit.

She sits up, slides her feet off the bed, which is when she realizes she is in her underwear. A quick hand to her chest indicates her bra is on under her tank top, but her pants are currently missing in action. That’s problem numero uno, which is shortly overtaken by the problem of the sound of her shower running, and someone humming along to Shaggy’s ‘Angel’.

Shit _balls_.

Emma lets out a very begrudging sigh before doing what has to be done - the check. But besides most of her body smelling slightly like tequila and lime juice, and her upper lip tasting a whole lot like orange juice, she seems to be clean. She runs her hand through her hair, picks some lime salt off her eyebrow. This is exactly why you don’t attend an open bar, Emma Swan. You have to do degrading things like sniffing your hand for sex evidence and removing margarita salt from your face. 

After tiptoeing around the bed - and discovering her pants are folded at the end of the bed, a useful discovery considering she immediately shoves them on - she is still unable to see inside the slightly open door to the bathroom. The shower turns off, Emma braces herself at the sound of the curtain sliding, and then--

“Oh my _god_ , Emma,” a blonde is clutching a towel to her chest, her other hand grabbing the doorframe. “You were _lurking_ , that is terrifying.”

“H-Helga?”

Helga blinks, and then breaks into a grin. “Girl, do _not_ be surprised to see me.”

 _Oh fuck._ “Uh, why are you showering in my shower?”

“Because this is my shower?”

“Is this not--” But a quick glance around the room has revealed a number of key things Emma missed - chiefly, a suitcase that is not hers, an open closet full of clothes that are not hers, and a full minibar. _Oh fuckity fuck._

“Swan, this is my room. God, how drunk were you last night? I thought you were just a really _happy_ drunk.”

“Did we...uh...”

“Did we what?” Helga raises an eyebrow. “I brought you back here because you lost your room key, remember? You literally were too inarticulate to say numbers, so we came back here, you threw up two frozen margaritas in my toilet, told me about your childhood crush, and fell asleep on the bathroom floor after taking off your pants. I dragged you onto the bed and slept on the couch.” She smirks. “It was all very charming.”

Emma will admit there is a massive wave of relief running through her body right now. That, or it’s part of the hangover, and it’s about to end up in the nearest receptacle. “Fuck, I am so sorry about all that.”

“Don’t be.” Helga’s still smirking, going through her suitcase in a towel. “Like I said, it managed to be very charming. Besides the puking.”

“I’ve been told I’m a charming puker.” _The fuck you doing, Swan? You stupid dangerous bastard, you danger-loving idiot, you first class moron._

Helga snorts. “Right, Swan.” She returns to the bathroom, clothing under her arm. “You sure you’re feeling alright? I’d imagine you have one bitch of a hangover.”

Emma sits on the edge of the bed, looking out at the balcony to give her some privacy. “Yeah, that’s an understatement.”

“At least we were the last ones in the bar. No worries about anyone else witnessing your dramatic fall from grace.” Emma can hear the smile in her voice. “A literal fall from grace, in case you forgot.”

Emma rubs at her sore shoulder, pulls back her collar to see green and blue. “That would probably explain the bruises.”

Well, that or the executive director.

“You ready, then?”

Emma turns around. Helga’s fully dressed, sunglasses on. “I probably should go back to my room and get changed--”

“Breakfast ends in twenty minutes. Trust me when I say you’ll want to make an appearance.” She lowers her sunglasses for a moment, waggles her eyebrows knowingly. “They’re keeping track. If you don’t attend enough activities, you didn’t get the ‘bonding’ experience they’re paying for you to have, and they take it out of your paycheck.”

Emma tries not to audibly gasp. “You’re fucking with me.”

“Nope.”

“Jeez,” Emma says, and follows Helga out the door.

Little do they know she’s done enough bonding in twenty four hours to earn an additional paycheck and a lawsuit.

 

 

 

 

Of course they’re among the last to arrive for breakfast, of course they have to take a table on the far end of the room where everyone can watch them walk across the airy dining room, of course Emma makes eye contact with Regina who gives her a one over and of course she’s wearing last night’s clothes and not alone and that must make _some_ impact on the executive director, who refuses to look away with pure white fire in her pupils. Of course Graham is sitting directly next to Regina, and raises his eyebrows sky high in a flagrant demonstration of judgment. Emma forces herself to stare with great concentrative effort at a palm tree in the corner, as if she is going to be quizzed on the number of fronds in this palm tree later in a life or death situation.

Palm tree, Emma. Nothing exists but the palm tree. 

“Oh thank god,” Helga says, taking a seat. “We missed the opening remarks. Nothing like a bunch of exec board blowhards patting themselves on the back for buying a new beach house. Are you...are you okay?”

“Palm tree,” Emma says, and Helga only raises an eyebrow. “I mean, that’s a nice...uh, palm tree.”

“Sure.”

 

 

 

 

“You gonna eat that waffle or keep enacting revenge on it?”

Emma breaks her gaze from the palm tree - 6 fronds, 39 individual little green pointy parts - and looks down at her waffle, which she has sliced into tiny, minced pieces now bled red from the equally eviscerated strawberries. She grunts, finally shoves a bite into her mouth. Helga raises an eyebrow.

“What did that waffle ever do to you?”

“It killed my entire family.”

This at least gets a snort. “Orphaned by breakfast.”

“Actually half-true.” Emma shrugs. “I am technically an orphan.”

“No shit. Huh.” Helga considers her bowl of fruit. “I’ll be real with you, I have no idea how to respond to that.”

Across the room, Regina is getting to her feet. Emma watches her over her glass of orange juice, sucks the air in through her teeth as Regina’s backside leaves the dining room and Graham’s head swivels around in Emma’s direction, his eyes narrowing as he grins.

“Asshole,” she mutters, and gives him a look right back, rolling her eyes and attempting a subtle hand gesture that indicates just how much she cares about the situation, honestly.

“You really hate that waffle, huh?” Helga says, although the look on her face seems to recognize this is not about a breakfast food, and that gesture was not intended for the remains of innocent strawberries.

“Yeah,” Emma says. “That waffle is a prick.”

“If we’re talking about the waffle I think we’re talking about, he carries that reputation with him.”

This comment does perk Emma up, though. “Oh, really?”

“Yes, really.” Helga smiles. “Only a few months at the company and already that waffle has more enemies than frenemies. Trust me, he’s at my branch. That waffle is a soulless small-dicked kiss ass.”

“I appreciate your waffle intel, Sinclair.”

“Any time, Swan. Now, if you’re done disemboweling your breakfast as an act of metaphor, we should probably get you a new room key.”

 

 

 

 

So begins the third longest day of Emma Swan’s life.

 

 

 

 

10:15 AM  
Snorkeling

 

 

Emma specifically chose snorkeling as her morning activity because she recalled a conversation where Regina mentioned her desire to _not_ be seen in a bathing suit by her coworkers, and figured that was the safest bet for an activity said bathing-suit-unenthusiast would avoid.

She is correct, she finds, when assembling on the beach with a number of other Brooketech employees. 

A coral reef and a rainbow of fish would be amazing on any other occasion, were Emma not using this opportunity to plan the best way to handle the next twenty four hours and fight the ever-lurking anxiety attack at the back of her mind. While her mind is on the best way to make Graham Hunt’s tumble from a tropical parapet look like an accident, she learns that despite looking like beautiful loopy marshmallows, coral is very sharp.

The instructor makes a very loud effort to drag her, slightly fighting, back onto the beach, where he goes to work wrapping the cut on her foot. 

“Please don’t sue,” he whispers, applying a bright white towel to the injury, which only makes it look worse when she is eventually surrounded by bloody white towels. “This is, like, the only job I am capable of doing with my philosophy degree.”

“Uh, I’m fine, seriously,” she starts, but the dude is already pushing his dreads out of the way while he attends to her wounds. 

And it’s just, seriously, so typical that the windsurfing class is walking by at the exact moment Emma is bleeding in the sand, attempting to hide her identity with a blood-soaked towel.

“Everything okay?” The windsurfing instructor asks, and his group has stopped to peer over with curiousity, including, ugh...Regina and Graham. Emma sees the exact moment when Regina spots her, makes eye contact, and it’s all too obvious that she has stopped herself from stepping towards her, her face strained. Graham is standing directly behind Regina, and when he sees Emma, makes sure to thrust slightly in place to imitate a particular movement Emma is familiar with. She glares back, lifting her bloody towel in what she hopes is a threatening gesture.

“Nothing to see here,” the snorkeling instructor says, grinning through tears. “Very minor, no big deal.”

Emma gives the dude a thumbs up for reassurance.

And when the windsurfing class continues down the beach, the executive director may or may not linger at the end of the group, a few glances back at the snorkeler in the sand, a hand through her hair, a gesture whose meaning is familiar to Emma, and then continues on.

“There,” the instructor says, and her foot is now complete wrapped in a bandage. “Totally better, right?” He looks terrified when she does not immediately respond. “Right?”

“I mean, the foot’s fine,” she sighs, and then collapses back into the sigh, covering her face with a bloody towel. “Could you bury me in this sand? Is that a thing you could do?”

“Uh, no. Definitely can’t bury a guest in sand. Particularly a wounded one.”

“Damn it.”

 

 

 

 

12:30 PM  
Lunch

 

 

Helga raises an eyebrow at Emma’s foot, still wrapped while in her sandal. “Shark attack?”

Emma limps slightly before taking a seat at their table, smirking. “You should see the shark.”

“Well, if the way you handled that waffle is anything to go on--”

Emma is slightly distracted by Graham standing behind Regina at the juice bar, making direct eye contact with Emma while sniffing her hair. She narrows her eyes, grabs the nearest fruit, and stabs it with her fork. He bats his eyelashes, smiles triumphantly, and only sputters briefly when Regina turns around.

“Speaking of waffles,” Helga says, eyeing the fork-impaled lemon that Emma is wielding.

 

 

 

 

1:30 PM  
Group Photo

 

 

The photo that will later hang on the ninth floor of Brooketech’s New England offices features a few interesting details if you take the time to look:

A certain member of Information Technology and Confidentiality standing behind the executive director, his left hand appearing to be hidden.

The executive director’s tense smile in reaction to the aforementioned man’s hand.

A low-level member of Sales who really shouldn’t be in this photo in the first place not looking at the camera, but staring down the executive director out of the corner of her eye, chewing her bottom lip.

 

 

 

 

2:00 PM  
Self-Selected Activities

 

 

Emma lifts one cucumber from her eye when someone else comes into her section of the spa, her clay mask drooping slightly. The executive director sits down on the lounger next to her, hair wrapped in a towel, robe loosely tied.

“Is your foot alright?”

Emma tries not to smile, smirk, or otherwise react in any positive manner to a woman who makes every single bit of her feel like it has been set on fire and also left outdoors in Antarctica. “The doctors managed to save it for now, but there’s a chance they may have to amputate.” She can almost _hear_ the sound of Regina’s eyes rolling. “How was windsurfing?”

“Not windy enough. More sitting on boards in a wetsuit and listening to the legal department bicker about last quarter’s numbers.”

“Lovely.”

“It was.”

Emma lowers her voice to a whisper, aware of the fact they are not alone in the spa. “So, where’s your shadow?”

Regina’s face is unreadable, her eyes serenely closed as an attendant applies a green mask. “Where’s yours?”

“Ah, I see. I didn’t realize that was the particular game we were playing.”

“I’m not playing games, Miss Swan.”

“Of course not, Ms. Mills. What a super serious business retreat. There is fruit all over my face.”

Regina clears her throat slightly, and pulls a mask down over her eyes. “I believe a cucumber is a vegetable.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “It’s a fruit. It grows on a vine,” she hisses.

“It’s a vegetable.”

“Shockingly, Ms. Mills, you don’t know everything.”

“Apparently not. I don’t know the name of your blonde companion, for example.”

“You know what I hate the taste of? Cucumbers. You know what else I hate the taste of? Betrayal.”

A sharp intake of breath from her companion. “Miss Swan,” she whispers, though there is a considerable edge to that whisper.

“Fine,” Emma whispers, sighing.

“We should talk. Not here.”

And Emma’s not sure why her chest hurts right now, why she’s _angry_ and unable to think about anything but Graham thrusting the air behind Regina’s wetsuit-clad ass, but she rubs at her face, forgetting it is currently covered in volcanic something or other. “I asked for space,” she says, and pulls off her cucumbers. When she looks over at Regina, the other woman is clearly hurt.

“Oh,” Regina whispers, her voice lower now, her expression strained. “Right. I’m sorry. Of course, I should have let you come to me. I...it would be noticeable if I left before they removed this.”

“It’s...fine,” Emma bites down on her lower lip, looks in the other direction.

And she spends the rest of her facial beside Regina in silence, eyes squeezed shut. She even eats a cucumber slice out of pure awkward spite.

 

 

 

 


	14. RE: "Poor Communication Kills" Article

 

 

 

 

Somehow, _somehow_ , Emma Swan makes it to the end of day three. Has it been an awkward three days? Unquestionably. Has it been, at times, emotionally taxing to the point of drinking herself out of the need to cry while aroused? Possibly. But she’s made it. She’s a trooper. And by god, if remaining on the beach for forty eight hours as a way to avoid interacting with a certain someone is the worst thing she has to do this week, she can’t really complain.

 

 

 

 

The final cocktail hour. She’s been avoiding the other ones - Emma’s been attending all the presentations, even the ones that put her to sleep, but skipping anything listed as ‘social’. If anyone asks, her plan is to dangle her injured foot in front of them and talk about her fictional lawyer who has a really great record.

She’s out of clean clothes by this evening. She had to actually consider buying something in the super expensive “I’m a rich person on vacation in Mexico but I shop at the hotel boutiques because I don’t want to get a disease from a brown person by leaving the resort” stores, but even Emma Swan has her limits. Instead, she’s attending the post-dinner cocktails in a white tee and ripped jeans. Every time she doubts herself, she remembers that Gold is currently wearing cargo shorts and a Hawaiian shirt with a puka shell necklace he bought at the airport. She’s fine.

Across the room, Regina is in a circle of high-powered dudes, like the start to some sort of corporate porno, and of course Graham is part of said circle, grinning like a snake. 

Emma takes this opportunity to order a pina colada the size of her head, and plant herself on a bar stool. Around this time, a certain blonde appears to her right, a Manhattan in hand, and takes the seat next to her.

“Swan.” Helga smirks. “Glad to see you’ve changed your mind from the other night.”

“Oh, yeah? How’s that?”

“You swore into my toilet bowl that you would never drink a drop of alcohol again.” She nods at Emma’s hurricane glass of pina colada. “Seems you’ve done a one eighty on that particular declaration. That’s good. This retreat would be a bitch sober.”

“I’ll drink to that.” She clinks her massive glass against Helga’s more respectably sized one. Helga’s making very deliberate eye contact, which causes Emma to blink a few times. “Is, uh, something on your mind?”

“I don’t mean to be forward or anything, but I’d really like it if we fucked.”

Emma spits her mouthful of pina colada back into the glass. “ _Sorry?_ ”

Helga turns bright red, nearly dropping her Manhattan. “Did I...shit, did I read this wrong?”

“Um, I’m not--”

“Are you just some really, _really_ gay-acting straight girl?”

“ _Oh_. Well, no. Definitely not straight. Very gay.”

“Thank god. That’s good. Really good. I mean, it’s more really good for you, because if you told me you weren’t gay I’d feel like I needed to maybe sit you down, lend you some L Word DVDs, send you to a spirituality class, allude a lot to ‘your true self’. I’d be afraid you weren’t living up to your potential.” She winks. “That makes this a bit less awkward.”

And Emma would be lying if this interaction was not doing _something_ to certain parts of her, particularly the parts that are feeling mildly petty and jealous about Regina hanging off the arm of some big-toothed bag of dicks, but. Not today.

“Look, you’re super hot. For real.” Emma sighs. “I’m just not available right now. I’m kind of...I’m in a relationship...thingy. Yeah.”

“Shit.” By now, Helga is holding an empty glass. Regardless, she still attempts to take a sip from it. “The first year of this retreat when there’s an attractive person who actually swings my way. It figures.” She sighs. “So, what does your girlfriend do?”

Emma stops herself from dodgily staring across the room at a certain individual. “She’s in, uh...computers.”

“You’re in the same field, then. That must make things easier.”

No, not at all. Literally the opposite. “Yeah. A bit.”

“How long have you been together?”

“Uh, about six months? I guess it depends on when you define the relationship starting.”

Helga snorts. “It’s when you bang, isn’t it?”

Emma hopes she is not blushing, sipping on her drink. “Right, well. Sometimes that comes before anything else.”

Helga leans in, whispering in Emma’s ear. “It’s Regina Mills, isn’t it?”

And this is the second time Emma spits out her liquor tonight. “Wh-aa-blar-- _no_.”

“I had a hunch, but I figured I’d try anyway.” She smirks even as Emma is experiencing temporary paralysis. “Dude, it’s fine. _She’s_ fine, like...wine. Sorry, I’m a bit buzzed. But alcohol aside, your secret is safe with me. I may be a bit of a bitch, but I’m not an asshole.”

“I really appreciate that.” She’s probably still blushing. “Out of curiosity, how did you know? Is it...is it super obvious?”

“Oh, no. Not really. I mean, you do gaze intensely at her most of the time, but a person would have to be staring at _you_ all of _their_ time to notice.”

“Oh. _Oh_.” Okay, now she’s really blushing. “Sorry, really. Although who knows the way my week has been going? Catch me at the end of the month and maybe I’ll be free.”

“Why?” Helga snorts, orders another Manhattan. “I thought having an affair with your boss always resulted in long healthy marriages with happily ever afters and zero issues whatsoever. I mean, what else could happen when you’ve established a relationship based on totally unbalanced power dynamics and career-threatening secrecy?”

Emma wants to laugh, but she also wants to cry, so instead she groans and takes another audible sip of her pina colada. “I know. I’m an idiot.”

“Look, we’d all probably do it if we were in your shoes. I mean, dude, she’s a stone cold fox. I have no idea what she’s like personality-wise because I’m literally terrified of her - and that says a lot coming from someone who is known as That Bitch in Talent - but if you’ve stuck around for this long then it’s probably pretty darn great. Six months is a long time for this kind of thing. Six months means it’s not just about the sex anymore.”

“I don’t know.”

“You _do_ know.”

Emma sighs. “No, really, I don’t. I have zero idea what I’m doing. I don’t know how I thought this was something that we could keep up and have it be fine and normal and...whatever. Like, a sex contract with my boss, how did I think I was going to build a long term serious relationship out of that shit?”

“Oh my god,” Helga’s eyebrows are sky high. “First of all, sex contract. Wow. Congrats. Second of all, oh my god. Are you in love with her?”

How many times is Emma going to choke on this pina colada tonight? Really.

“Why would you ask that?”

“Because six months in lesbianism is basically marriage.” Helga smirks, seeming to remain both shocked and totally amused by everything she’s been hearing. “I suppose you could just quit your job, but maybe sales is your true calling.”

Emma cannot snort hard or fast enough, to the point that it violently shakes her drink. “No. Definitely not. I don’t like sales, and sales doesn’t like me.”

“What _do_ you like, then?”

“I...” Huh. Does she know what she likes? Besides circling the drain of a job she doesn’t care about, and frozen pizzas, and falling for her boss? “I don’t know.”

Helga raises an eyebrow. “You don’t know what you want to do with your life?”

“I mean, do I have to know?” Emma throws up her hands. “Isn’t there some honor to being perfectly mediocre? Why does everyone have to excel at things and make a career out of their dream job? Some of us are just fine living in a studio apartment and eating takeout for the rest of their lives.”

“You don’t actually believe that, do you?”

Emma groans. “Why are you being philosophical when I’ve had this much rum?”

“Oh, and don’t try to convince me that things are casual when you have literally plotted homicide out loud twice on this retreat motivated solely by jealousy.”

“I’m not jealous of that twathole!”

“Right. You’re totally cool with the fact he’s chatting up your work wife right now. That’s why you referred to him as a twathole and spilled a little bit of your drink.”

“Is he chatting her up?” Emma swings around in her barstool, but it’s not Graham she sees. Oh, no. It’s a very familiar brunette making direct eye contact with her while striding across the room “Shit.”

Helga turns, and then looks even _more_ amused, which Emma assumes is because this situation is as entertaining from the outside as it is horrendously confusing and stressful from the inside. “Oh my,” she says, nursing a new Manhattan. “Incoming, Swan.”

“Yeah, I got that,” she mutters, only to get to her feet as Regina is now directly in front of her. “Ms. Mills,” she says, attempting composure and coolness and ‘how about fuck you but also can I fuck you but also fuck you’.

“Miss Swan.” Regina is smiling, but it’s not her genuine smile and it’s not her business smile either. It’s probably somewhere in the middle, somewhere closer to the sad one she saw two days ago. “Mr. Gold was looking for you. I believe he’s out on the beach. Some sort of...team building exercise.”

“Uh, thanks. Cool.”

And just like that, gone. Regina’s back in the crowd and Helga’s grabbing her arm, grinning.

“Wow, and here I thought you were the woefully unsubtle half of this doomed affair.”

 

 

 

 

Of course Gold isn’t on the beach. Not that Emma expected to find him there. She expected to find exactly what she _does_ find, which is Regina Mills, holding her shoes, lit by a full moon in a clear night sky, wearing that dress Emma knows how to unzip with one hand.

_Well, fuck it._

“Hey,” she says, testing the air, and Regina looks over her shoulder. Emma can’t quite make out her expression from here, but she can’t see a smile yet. She keeps walking towards her, feet sinking in the sand, trying to take steady breaths. She knows what she has to say. She’s known for a while now, and has been repeating it to herself for the past two days every hour, on the hour. Now she just has to say it out loud.

“Miss Swan.”

“I’m looking for Gold. Apparently he wanted to see me. Or at least that’s what I was told. Maybe the person who told me that had bad intel.”

“Sounds about right.” Regina glances over at her, eyes knowing. “This company has an issue with communication.”

That’s probably not about the company, is it?

“I didn’t sleep with Helga. The blonde, that’s her name. We’re just friends.”

“I know,” Regina says. “I’ve been trying to get rid of Graham since we landed. He is infuriatingly difficult to evade. I don’t think I could enjoy his company less if he were actively trying to kill me. Actually, he might be trying to kill me.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Emma shrugs, takes another deep breath. “Look, I don’t have a problem with anything you did in your past. That’s not my business. I’ll be totally honest and say that Graham is an asshole and I hate him and if he were to die in a boating accident in the next twenty four hours I would not technically be that upset, but I won’t begrudge you for whatever you do or did with your life. I’m not in a position to do that.”

Regina’s nodding “And I would never try to make you jealous on purpose. It’s been difficult not to do so unintentionally considering how often I have to be around him and not around you. I’m sorry I couldn’t make that clear.”

“It’s...okay.” She’s actually smiling a little now, trying to keep down a laugh. “Shit, look at us. Instead of perpetuating easily avoidable problems based on minor misunderstandings, we’re communicating. Blue ribbon effort, Mills.”

Regina smirks. “Add that to your LinkedIn skills.”

“I will.”

“On the subject of communicating, there’s something I have to say.”

“I...also have something to say.” Emma takes a deep breath. “Do you want to go first?”

“No, you go ahead.”

“Okay. I...this is not easy.”

Regina’s still smirking a little. “I understand. Trust me, I do.”

“Okay. Fine.” Emma takes a deep breath, and if her insides are currently a convulsing den of snakes, that will come as a surprise to no one. “I’ve thought about this a lot over the past two days. I’ve had a lot of time to think about it, and us, and my job, and your job, and...I don’t think I can do this anymore. Actually, it’s not just about me. I don’t think we _should_ do this anymore. Morally, or logistically.”

And she will be looking so intently at the sand at her feet that she won’t actually see how Regina’s face falls, how the light goes from her eyes and the hand clenched at her side releases, goes limp, and she won’t see the moment when finally, for the first time, Regina turns away.

“Oh.”

Emma looks up now, runs a hand through her hair in a gesture that used to remind her of the other woman. “It’s just...these last few days have been crazy. I’ve never felt so jealous or...or alone, even. It’s one thing when we’re back home but here it reminded me in very clear terms that what we’re doing is wrong. I can’t even stand next to you in a crowded room. That’s crazy, right? That’s not something sustainable.”

“Emma--”

“Sorry, I’m rambling. What did you have to say before?”

“It’s...it’s nothing. It doesn’t matter now.” Regina clears her throat, pulls an arm across her front as if she’s cold, or unsure, but it’s hot as hell even at night here and surely Regina Mills, Executive Director, has never been unsure of anything in her life. “I think it’s probably easiest if you delete any emails from me. I’ll do the same. Consider, um...” She seems to be out of breath, and she won’t look Emma in the eye. “Consider our contract null, then.”

 _Fuck._ “Okay,” Emma says, and she knows her voice is shaking and her hands are shaking but she’s already about to walk back up the beach, shoving her hands into her pockets. “Cool. I...I’ll just head back up. Have a good, um, rest of the retreat.”

_Fuck. Fuck? Fucking fuck. FUCK._

 

 

 

 


	15. FWD: Resignation

 

 

 

 

It’s raining when the plane lands, which seems about right to Emma. It’s not even a decent or interesting rain. She could use a thunderstorm, really - something dramatic and intense and complete with a few lightning bolts to shake the life back into her. Instead it’s monotonous bullshit drizzle, the kind that soaks you to the point of discomfort and then leaves you to deal with that on your own like a one night stand who turns out to be a pillow queen.

Someone touches her elbow when she steps out of the gate, and oh, doesn’t her stupid heart beat a little faster thinking it’ll be _someone_ , but it’s Helga, giving her the usual smirk. She’s shrugging on the strap of her carry-on, nodding down the terminal.

“I have to switch flights here,” Helga says, and then holds out her arms. “Say goodbye, Swan.”

Emma smiles in spite of herself, and falls into the embrace. “Goodbye, Sinclair. In another universe, we would have already banged.”

“That’s what I’m going to call you from now on. ‘Another Universe Bang’ Swan.”

“I love it.” She sighs. “You’ll keep that Washington office in check, right?”

“I always do.” The last wave of Brooketech employees come out of the gate and into the terminal, a certain executive director among them. Helga raises her eyebrows in that direction. “Get your shit together, by the way. You’ve got a spark in there, really. You don’t need to be the ninth worst person in Sales forever.”

“Yeah, I know.”

She does, actually. For the first time in a long time, she does.

 

 

 

 

She makes eye contact with Regina at baggage claim, looks up from the rotating belt of suitcases and sees Regina standing across from her and yes, she’s looking right at her.

Emma bites down on her lip, tries to say something with her eyes, something like I’m sorry, and I don’t know what to do, and I don’t know how to explain to you that this is what I have to do. So she doesn’t.

She turns away. And when she finally looks back, Regina has turned away, too. She doesn’t turn around.

 

 

 

 

There’s a kid at the arrivals gate with a big grin on his face, leaning over the rail to see better. When Emma first sees him, she can’t remember why she recognizes him, but it doesn’t take long to remember the many times she saw that particular smile in the photos on Regina’s desk. _Henry._

He’s standing next to a redhead, her hand on his shoulder.

“How much longer, Aunt Zelena? It says they arrived thirty minutes ago.”

“She’s probably stuck in customs. Knowing your mother, she tried smuggling mezcal back into the -- oh look, there she is.”

And Emma shouldn’t turn, and she certainly shouldn’t look at the way Regina’s tired face lights up when she sees her son, waving ecstatically from his side of the barrier, nor should she keep watching when she runs up to him, arms out, sweeping him into a hug over the rail. “My prince,” she says into his shoulder, and Emma can’t help it. It makes her smile a little.

“You okay?” Zelena asks her sister, brow furrowing.

“Long flight,” Regina says, pushes hair behind her ear. She straightens, wipes the look from her face that Emma has seen before - after all, she put it there - and grins at her son. “Am I the only one who wants to get ice cream on the way home?”

The kid raises an eyebrow. “We’ll spoil our dinner. We never do that.”

“Just this once,” Regina says, and starts walking them toward the exit, her hand around her son’s shoulder. “Ice cream for dinner.”

Emma watches them disappear into the other section of the airport.

 

 

 

 

And staring out the rainy window of the cab becomes staring out the rainy window of her studio apartment which becomes staring out the rainy window of the office.

“Okay, so here’s what happened while you were out -- we got a new espresso machine in the breakroom and of course it took fucking Gaston six fucking seconds before he’s broken the thing irreparably -- oh, and then we had a meeting about workplace relationships and how they’re, like, totally--”

Emma blinks, finally looking up at Ruby. Up until this point, she had not noticed that Ruby has tied some sort of glitter ribbon to her headset, and is wearing a visibly pink bra under her shirt. “What?”

“Apparently someone in legal was making the moves on his underlings, I don’t know. Long story short, we had this super awkward meeting about how to report relationships to human resources, and seriously, can you imagine telling Mary Margaret about your sex life? Bless her little heart, but really.” Ruby’s eyes narrow when she smiles. “You might need to report a relationship if you ever get the balls to go talk to your Tinder match.”

And Emma had almost forgotten that, except she hadn’t. At all. Couldn’t if she tried, if she’s being honest.

“Right,” she says, and lowers her eyes back to her computer. “Sure.”

“Girl, I am only gonna tell you once, and by once I mean I’ll beat you over the head with this information until you buck the fuck up: the executive director has a thing for you. She wants to do the dirty.”

“Yeah,” Emma says. Fuck, she wants to say. Fuck my fucking life, she wants to say.

“ _Fine_ , if you really want to be bashful about your potential sex life and responsible in the workplace, we can talk about this later. Happy hour at Mickey’s?”

“Yeah,” Emma repeats, starts clicking through her inbox. Not that she expects anything, not really, but it wouldn’t be...it wouldn’t be the worst thing.

 

 

 

 

She only presses the wrong floor on the elevator once. Old habit from visiting someone on the executive floor. And then she’s got to stand there when the doors awkwardly open, and she’s looking out onto the pool of assistants and the glass doors on the other end are slightly ajar, and she could just get off and walk down there and close the door behind her and say something, say whatever it is she’s formulated and reformulated in her mind all day, but she doesn’t.

The doors close. She sighs. _Fuck it._

 

 

 

 

She’s in the massive post-lunch line at the coffee shop, and the barista calls out an order for a flat white. Emma cranes her neck to see who picks it up. Not brunette. Not wearing a pair of red heels, not swinging a handbag. Not chastising the barista, not raising an eyebrow at Emma’s business card.

This is all going to be harder than she thought. _Fucking fuck it._

 

 

 

 

Somehow she makes it to happy hour at Mickey’s, which is a miracle in and of itself. Mary Margaret’s sipping a sensible vodka soda hold the vodka, Ruby’s ordered a pitcher of margaritas, and there is a bowl of guacamole that Emma might just eat with her face. Like, pick the bowl up, apply directly to face, and eat her way out. That’s where she’s at.

“So,” Ruby pours the margarita into a pint glass she somehow acquired, probably not with the permission of the bartender considering the list of rules regarding Ruby’s conduct that is pinned behind the bar. “I’ve been waiting all day for this dish session.” She gestures with a tortilla chip. “Bitch, dish.”

Emma feigns innocence. “About what?”

“About the weather.” Ruby’s chip gesturing gets more intense. “What the hell do you _think_ I want to dish about? What happened on the damn retreat? Did those presents get put to good use or did I get them engraved for naught up in here?”

“Yeah, about that fucking surprise in the TSA line--”

“You’re welcome. Or rather, you’re _only_ welcome if you actually did anything.”

Mary Margaret blinks. “Emma, what is she talking about?”

Emma slaps away a tortilla chip near her face. “You don’t want to know, honestly. It would offend your sensibilities.”

Mary Margaret’s eyes widen, and she looks at Ruby, stage whispering: “Ruby, did you...did you put marijuana cigarettes in her suitcase?”

“Your other sensibilities, Mary Margaret. The sexually repressed ones.”

Mary Margaret gasps into her drink. “Oh goodness, Ruby.”

“Look, guys. There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

Ruby’s now gesturing with her pint glass of margarita, gleefully eating guacamole. “Like honestly, Emma, I’m not gonna sit here and pretend like you’re not wasting your potential, and by potential I mean your sexual potential, and by that I mean that your whole downstairs situation will close up if you don’t use it, I’m dead serious--”

“I’m quitting Brooketech.”

Mary Margaret gasps again. “Emma!” 

A tortilla chip falls out of Ruby’s mouth. “For real?”

“Also, I’ve been having an affair with Regina Mills. The handcuffs were actually a nice gesture, and we definitely used them, but you should have hid them better, idiot.”

Another tortilla chip - there were two? - falls out of Ruby’s mouth. She remains speechless, jaw agape, staring across the table at Emma.

Mary Margaret has calmly set down her soda, and is taking deep, calculated breaths. “Emma,” she says, very carefully and with great importance. “You do understand that this is...well, you’ve broken a lot of rules. From a Human Resources standpoint, this is a very bad idea.”

“Was,” Emma corrects. “It _was_ a very bad idea, and that’s why it’s over now.”

Ruby has yet to speak, but is now pouring margarita into her mouth, and missing slightly. Her left eye is twitching.

Mary Margaret looks slightly relieved at this, though her knuckles are still white around her soda. “That’s probably for the best. But back to what you said about quitting--”

“Fuck _that_ ,” Ruby finally says, slamming down her empty glass. “Have you seriously been hiding the single most exciting thing you or anyone we know will ever do from _me_ , your best friend and official trash receptacle of personal and office gossip?”

“Rubes, you know I love you--”

“Not enough to give me a reason to live. Which you banging Regina Mills would have been -- like I would have vicariously experienced the shit out of that, I could have been the sex cheerleader of your dreams -- but _no_ , you have to do it on the downlow for however fucking long and only let me in on the gold when you’ve decided to call it quits. Thanks for nothing, asshole.”

“It was too risky to tell anyone, not just you. I didn’t want to put her career at risk--”

“Oh my god, and you had _feelings_ for her?”

“I, uh...it’s complicated.”

“I may have just drank margarita out of a pint glass I stole from that man over there but I am not an idiot, Emma.”

“One minute it was this casual thing, the next minute everything is so intense and it’s not just about the sex and--”

“Bitch, if you say you fell in love with this woman--”

“--one day I wake up and I realize I’m in love with someone I can’t have an actual relationship with--”

Ruby slides the entire bowl of guacamole off the table, throwing her hands in the air. “Oh my _god_ , are you _serious_? Y’all just falling in love behind my damn back like that? I’m gonna _murder_ you, I’m seriously going to rip your stupid secretive face off your stupid secretive head.”

Mary Margaret takes a small sip of soda, clearing her throat. Her voice is lowered to a whisper. “Were you...were you having sex in the office?”

“Oh yeah,” Emma says, sighing. “Fucking _everywhere_. All the time.”

Mary Margaret lowers her head into her hands. “Oh Emma, this is very bad.”

Ruby is still not over the situation. “So all those times you skipped your lunch break, you weren’t actually working on a project?”

Emma shrugs. “She was the project, technically.”

“I will never trust anyone or anything ever again.”

“Rubes, come on.”

“Nope, nothing more out of your mouth, you untrustworthy lying bastard.” Ruby pulls the last of the chips away from Emma. “No tortilla chips for you, nothing. You have ruined me forever. I will have trust issues until my dying breath.”

“You already have trust issues.”

“Well, now I have really fucking _serious_ trust issues, thank you very much.” Ruby sighs, pouring another pint glass of margarita. “But it’s really over now? And you’re quitting Brooketech?”

“It’s really over, yeah.” Emma sighs. “I just had this moment at the retreat where everything became really, really clear for a second. And I realized that it was never gonna work, not like this. You can’t build a relationship on a lack of balance or transparency or other things normal adults need. It isn’t ever going to be the right fit for me. Neither is my job. I mean, guys, I hate this fucking job. I’m not even good at it. Why am I still doing something that makes me miserable?”

“It’s a paycheck,” Ruby says, shrugging. “If you get your satisfaction from outside of your job, and trust me, _I do_ , then who cares where you’re making money?”

“I do,” Emma says. “I didn’t actually think I did, but I do.”

Mary Margaret touches Emma’s arm. “But Emma, what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “And I’m okay with that right now.”

 

 

 

 

And if this story took place in an alternate universe where it was a fully-funded romantic comedy film with a mainstream audience and a generous budget and talented cast and written and directed by queer people who have a genuine investment in the plot and what it represents to all the people out there who want to see their stories told, then this would be a really well-shot montage sequence set to an slow-building but always uplifting indie song, or maybe the Rolling Stones’ _You Can’t Always Get What You Want_ if we could get the rights:

Emma handing in her resignation, packing up her desk, leaving her ‘I Hate Everyone I Work With’ mug with Ruby, and getting a tearful hug from Mary Margaret, clad entirely in pink mohair.

Emma packing up her apartment, carefully considering a wrinkled printed copy of the sex contract before folding it up and tucking it into her things.

Emma traveling cross-country on her own, taking odd jobs and smirking at new friends and learning about herself along the way.

Regina reading a post card at her desk, its front the Grand Canyon, its message simply _Gorgeous scenery, but they can’t make a flat white for shit out here. - E_ Regina smiling.

Emma crashing at a commune in the desert, watching a remote programmer on her laptop. Emma asking if she can show her the ropes. 

Emma in Washington DC, getting a coffee with Helga, gesturing enthusiastically and nearly knocking over her mug in the process.

Regina walking up the stoop of her brownstone, pausing when she sees a postcard among the mail. On its front, the Golden Gate Bridge, and its message _These flat whites are okay. Blame the nerds. -E_

Emma typing furiously, Helga on the phone in what looks like an apartment being converted into an office. That office filling with a few more people over time, a few more laptops at tables.

Emma and Helga smirking at each other as a yellow logo is hung on the wall and the word Savior is painted on the door. 

Regina being handed a postcard by Henry, looking considerably older than the last time we saw him. He smirks when she takes it from him, giving his mother a knowing look. On its front is a vintage photo of someone in a banana costume, and its message is _Finally cured my potassium issue. Thought you should know. -E_

 

 

 

 


	16. Epilogue: Savior, Download Now from the iBrooke Store

 

 

 

 

Five and a half years later. 

 

 

 

 

“You know I hate cocktail parties, Sinclair.”

“Welcome to the world of angel investors, Swan.” Helga smirks, adjusting her hair in the reflection of the Uber’s rearview mirror. “Sometimes you have to sip a cocktail out of a mason jar in exchange for three million investments and equity partnerships.”

“Mason jars are very three years ago.” Emma playfully knocks her business partner and fellow start-up founder in the shoulder. “It’s like you don’t even live in the Bay Area, seriously.”

“I can live here physically, but that doesn’t mean I have to _live_ here spiritually. No one on the East Coast would ever go to a pop-up restaurant whose food is made from compost. Meanwhile there are two pop-up compost food trucks in my neighborhood alone.” Helga shoots her a look, still grinning. “I know, I know. Brooklyn exists. I’m sorry I’m not as hip to trends as your hipster ass. That’s why you get all the questions about our mission and our vision, and I talk about numbers and the boring bits.”

“We need the boring bits. We are nothing without the boring bits.”

“Right, but these investors tonight want to brush elbows with visions and intentions and big lofty concepts. That’s all you.”

“Who would have thought the ninth worst Sales person at Brooketech was about to sell her dreams for millions?”

Helga smirks. “You haven’t done half bad, Another Universe Bang. Not half bad at all.”

The Uber slows to a stop in front of a Victorian rowhouse. Emma whistles. “How many million do you think this house is worth?”

“About a third of what we’ll be worth when we leave here tonight, hopefully.” Helga drags her by the elbow onto the sidewalk. “Come on, Swan. It’s showtime.”

 

 

 

 

And Emma would like to think that these types of events are all the same, but there’s a big difference between the cocktail party she might’ve attended five years ago and the ones she goes to now, now that she’s the--

“--founder of Savior, the app you’ve all been hearing about for the past few weeks.” The host is smiling between Emma and a few of the potential investors she’s being introduced to, cocktails in copper mugs in hand.

“So it was your app that saved the woman in Cleveland from being attacked by her stalker? It was everywhere in the news this week”

Emma nods, trying not to blush. “That’s the one.”

Helga is more on cue with the pitch. “Savior serves as a lifeline for anyone who feels endangered, but the app is targeted at women. We were inspired by Emma’s volunteer work in domestic violence shelters, and the experiences of the women she met who needed discreet, undetectable ways of saving themselves and their families. Savior looks like a women’s interest app, but one touch alerts authorities and calls everyone on their lifeline list.”

One of the investors leans in towards Emma, his voice lowered. “We’re _very_ interested. You’re a real whiz kid, or so I hear.”

Emma chuckles. “Not really much of a kid these days.”

“30 is the new 20,” he says, and pats her on the back.

It’s then that Emma sees her across the room. She’s in a red dress and her hair’s longer, but it’s her, no question.

“Sorry,” Emma says, unable to take her eyes off the woman. “Will you excuse me for a minute?”

Regina looks up when Emma’s halfway across the room, and the way she’s making eye contact with Emma, well. She’s calm, about five times calmer than Emma feels right now, and she’s smirking slightly, taking a slow sip of wine.

Emma instinctively adjusts her tie the moment she steps up to her, trying to contain her awe. “You’re not surprised to see me,” she says, and Regina’s smile grows.

“I’m not,” she says. “Investors are supposed to do their research.”

“You’re an investor?”

Regina spreads her hands a little, nods. “It’s a recent venture. I left Brooketech last year and started my own firm, but it seemed like joining an investment board was the logical next step.”

“Congratulations. On the new firm. I heard -- or, I Googled, actually. I thought I would send you a congrats on LinkedIn but that felt impersonal after...”

“I understand,” Regina says, and her nose wrinkles a little when she smiles. “I should be congratulating you, though. I keep hearing about Savior, everyone on the board’s been raving. Imagine my surprise when it was your name in Wired.” She smirks. “You’ve done something rather incredible, Emma Swan.”

Emma’s convinced she must be bright red at this point. “Ah, well, uh--”

“But you’ve always been incredible. Even when you were in Sales at Brooketech.”

Emma snorts. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We both know I was the worst person in that department.”

The smirk playing on Regina’s lips is steadily growing. “Yes, you were horrible at the job. But that’s because you weren’t where you were supposed to be. Clearly that’s right here, right now.”

Everything in Emma feels very warm and very light. “Funny how that works.”

Regina cocks her head slightly, one eyebrow raised in the most arousing way that Emma can think of, really. “So, you Googled me.”

Emma snorts. “I’ve Googled you a lot, actually.”

Regina’s smiling that very knowing smile that’s stayed the same, even after all these years. “Really. That’s interesting.”

“Your professional career has always been of interest to me.”

“That’s very professionally minded of you, Miss Swan.”

Emma smirks. “I think you of all people should know just how seriously I take my work, Regina.”

“You were always diligent,” Regina says, and then takes a long sip of her wine, her eyes on Emma.

“So how’s Henry?”

“He’s good. Very good. He’s just started lacrosse, actually.”

“I hope he didn’t ditch the stamp collection for fall sports.”

Regina’s smile is warm. “He likes both, as a matter of fact.”

“Good for him.” Emma holds her breath for a minute, willing herself to try. “So, you’re not at Brooketech anymore, and you’re now part of an angel investment group. Any other major life changes?”

Regina’s too smart to not know what she’s asking. “No,” Regina says, cool as a cucumber. “Nothing and no one.” She raises an eyebrow. “And you?”

“I thought you did your research.” She smirks, and adds, “As an investor.”

“Your startup’s website doesn’t have your relationship status in its About section, Miss Swan.”

“Probably for the best, since a single gay woman in San Francisco still isn’t very plausible these days. I guess I’m a unicorn.”

“It’s not that implausible,” Regina says. “I know a thing or two about being married to my work. I’m not surprised that you’re the same. You were certainly always...dedicated.”

And Emma Swan, being a woman in her early thirties with a lot of buzz around her app and her name and her new hot adult life, does what she's learned to do in the past five years and says exactly what she means to say. “Do you want to get dinner?” 

Regina lowers the glass of wine, her face unreadable. “Dinner?”

“I need to make the rounds a few more times here, but then I’d like to take you out to dinner. Not as an investor, though. I want to make it very clear, without any room for interpretation, that I am not asking you in a professional capacity. I am asking you on a date.”

And now it’s Regina’s turn to go slightly pink. “I see.” She looks directly at Emma. “Five years is a long time, Miss Swan.”

“Five and a half, actually.”

Regina smirks. “Who’s counting?”

“I am,” Emma says, her tone entirely serious. “Every single day since I left you at that airport.”

Regina’s expression changes at this, softening and shifting and it doesn’t matter if it’s been five years or fifty years -- Emma still knows her well enough to know what that look on her face means.

Regina’s hand brushes Emma’s, and she takes a step closer to close the gap between them. “It’s a date, then.”

“Ah,” and now the host is beside them, one hand on Emma’s arm. “I see you’ve met Regina Mills. Regina, this is Emma Swan, the founder and creative director at Savior.”

The smile on Regina’s face is all too loaded with meaning. “I’m very familiar with Miss Swan, actually. We used to work together.”

The host squints between them, still smiling genially. “Oh, fabulous. Then you know all about Savior and Emma’s work. It’d be a perfect match.”

“Yes,” Regina says, and Emma can’t tear her eyes from this woman, has resolved to never have to do that ever again. She smirks.

“A perfect match.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
